


Love and Joy Come to You

by Chash



Series: Holiday Fills 2016 [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Ficlet Collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-03 16:38:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 64
Words: 140,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8721106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chash/pseuds/Chash
Summary: Collection of holiday gift ficlets from tumblr! Mostly Bellarke AUs.





	1. But It Feels Alright

**Author's Note:**

> Second verse, same as the first: I like to ask for prompts to fill in December because gift fic is my jam, so expect a bunch of these to show up over the course of December. If you want them ASAP, they're posting first to [my holiday Tumblr](http://chasholidays.tumblr.com/), so follow that. Otherwise I'll probably throw them up after work most days.
> 
> I'm assuming these are Bellarke by default (because they are), but if you're looking for a non-Bellarke tagged pairing, check the chapter title, I will put it in there.
> 
> Also, a final, special note: I'm doing like seventy of these this month, which is tons of fun! But also means that these are not long fics. So please do me a favor and refrain from leaving comments telling me any of these fills should be longer, or you really want more, or I should do a sequel. These are, by necessity, one- to two-thousand word fics, and hearing that they should be longer is always kind of a bummer for me. I appreciate the sentiment! Just please don't share it with me <3 
> 
> Happy December!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [melika-elena](melika-elena.tumblr.com)! Prompt: Abby and Kane are getting married: Abby's daughter, Clarke, and Kane's ward/adoptee, Bellamy, hate their soon-to-be step-parents and hate each other. They team up to break Kabby up but WHOOPS! fall in love instead.

Clarke has always been a big believer in the enemy of her enemy being her friend. Even when both parties involved are her enemies, there’s usually an obviously more pressing threat, and she can work with that. Sometimes, it’s the only way out of a shitty situation.

Which is why she’s talking to _Bellamy_ , of all people. She doesn’t like him, but she dislikes Marcus Kane marrying her mother even more. Bellamy is the lesser of two evils here, no question.

“Princess,” he says, when she sits down across from him at lunch. “To what do I owe the honor? If you want to try to be my sister, don’t bother. I already have all the sisters I need. Full up.”

“I’d rather eat glass,” she shoots back. “ _That’s_ why I’m here.”

“You think I have glass?”

“I think you don’t want my mom to marry Kane any more than I do.”

He considers. “Probably less, yeah.”

“I don’t know about that,” she says, and it looks like he’s going to argue, so she holds up her hand. “But it’s beside the point.”

“The point being?”

“If anyone can stop a wedding they’re not actually involved in, it’s us.” She leans forward, giving him a sharp smile. “So my question is, do you hate me more, or our legal guardians more?”

He makes a show of thinking it over, but Clarke isn’t worried. She and Bellamy aren’t friends by any stretch of the imagination, but they can usually understand each other. And they have a history of uniting for bigger causes, because even if they don’t like each other on a personal level, they’re pretty much agreed on what counts as _the greater good_. And her mother not marrying his guardian is practically the definition of greater good.

“So, what’s the plan?” he asks.

“That’s the first step, right? Making a plan?”

He rolls his eyes, but his mouth is twitching up in a smile. “No wonder you need me for this. You don’t have a clue how to break up a marriage, do you?”

“Not yet. But you’re in, right?”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I’m in.”

*

Clarke didn’t _hate_ Marcus Kane until he adopted Bellamy and Octavia Blake, and her hatred has nothing to do with the Blakes themselves--if anything, there’s a part of her that’s glad he took them in, because if they’d gone into foster care, they might have _left_ , and then who would have argued with her all the time?--and everything to do with his desire to look better in the polls. As far as political moves go, adopting high-profile local orphans is pretty good, but it doesn’t make for good families. And on a personal level, it’s shitty.

Marrying her mother is a good political move for both of them, and Clarke has no interest in that. At least he mostly leaves Bellamy and Octavia alone, aside from a few photo ops. She can’t imagine the five of them living together, acting like a happy family, but that’s exactly what they’ll expect.

Hence Bellamy.

“Honestly, I don’t know how to be any less appealing than I already am,” he says. He’s lying on one of Kane’s very expensive couches with his boots on, which is a pretty good defense of his statement. “I think this is on you, Princess.”

“You think I’m being appealing?” she asks, and he snorts.

“Yeah, okay, good point. You still call him _Mr. Kane_?”

“Do you?”

He grins, and she grins back. They are cut from the same asshole cloth, at least. “We could start spending more time together,” he muses.

“How would that help?”

“You’re bad alone. I’m bad alone. But if they get married, they’re going to have to deal with both of us. All the time. You really think they want that?”

“We’re going to be in college soon.”

“So if we just make them wait until we’re gone, that’s not good enough for you? You won’t have to deal with it.”

Clarke kicks his foot. “Octavia will.”

“So?”

“Are you telling me you want your sister to have to live with my mom and Kane?”

“Of course not. I just didn’t think _you_ cared what happened to my sister.”

“I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.” She leans back in her own chair, closing her eyes. “A united front probably isn’t the worst place to start. You show my mom how little she wants you hanging around--”

“And you remind Kane how much you like him.”

As plans go, it’s neither inspired nor innovative, but she thinks it might _work_. The marriage would be more trouble than it’s worth, and that’s all they have to prove. “Good place to start,” she says, and Bellamy kicks her foot back. In a friendly way.

*

“Probably should have seen this one coming,” Bellamy tells her by way of greeting, three weeks later. He hands her an iced tea while he’s at it, and then nudges her so he can sit down next to her on the bench. There’s no real reason for them to hang out at the mall on a weekend, but they both wanted to avoid the wedding planning, and it’s taken over their houses. And apparently Octavia is meeting friends here, so Bellamy wanted to be around anyway.

That doesn’t excuse Clarke being here, but she didn’t have any other plans. “What, the iced tea?” she asks. “Sorry I wasn’t paying attention until you waved it in my face.”

“Not that. Kane thinks we’re dating.”

She freezes, and then relaxes by slow degrees, sipping her iced tea as a cover. “Does he approve?” she asks, once she recovers.

“Nope. He told me it was a bad idea and it would be awkward once we were siblings.”

“We’re never going to be siblings.”

“That’s what I told him. Also that you have great breasts, just to piss him off.”

Clarke lets herself glance at him. He’s wearing his glasses, like he tends to on weekends, sipping at his own coffee, looking ahead with an unreadable expression.

It’s been fun, hanging out with him the last few weeks. Much more than she expected. And it’s apparently working; her mother’s frown has been growing deeper every time she sees him.

“That could work,” she offers, slow.

“What could?”

“Dating. They’d _hate_ that.”

“Are you asking me out?”

“No. But we might as well lean into it, right?”

He glances back at her now, raises his eyebrows, and she shrugs one shoulder in response. Apparently that’s enough. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Can’t hurt.”

*

The first time Abby catches them making out on the couch, Clarke thinks a vein might actually pop in her head, she’s so pissed. It would be funny, except that she kicks Bellamy out, and Clarke honestly would have preferred to keep on making out.

He’s not half bad at it.

*

Kane is somehow _worse_ , which Clarke was not expecting. Abby is an actual parent, after all; she should be the expert on reacting to teenage hookups. But rage is easy. Kane wants to give them a long talk about responsibility, family, and safe sex, and then he gives them condoms and leaves them alone with an apparently genuine, “I trust the two of you to make mature decisions.”

They both stare at the condoms in mute horror for a second, and then Bellamy drops his head onto her shoulder laughing. “Jesus Christ.”

“I thought you said he was pissed!”

“I guess he figures it would be worse if I knocked you up,” Bellamy points out.

“That can be our last resort,” she says. “They can’t want us under the same roof, right?”

“Not if we keep this up,” he agrees. “Watch Netflix until he gets back and then you take your shirt off?”

“Deal,” she agrees, and doesn’t mention that he’s still got his arm around her. She settles in closer instead, and he squeezes her.

Kane doesn’t come back, and she’s just as glad. They’re almost done with 30 Rock.

*

“I thought they were coming home soon,” Clarke murmurs, tugging Bellamy’s shirt off.

“They have to show up eventually, right?” He nips her neck, gentle. “Want a hickey?”

“Not that high.”

“No one’s going to see it if it’s lower, Princess.”

“I don’t want it so people will see,” she says without thinking, and Bellamy freezes. She closes her eyes, gives herself to the count of ten to say something. It’s a salvageable statement. She’s seventeen. She hasn’t _really_ dated anyone since Lexa last year. She’s allowed to be horny. It doesn’t have to be _personal_.

His mouth starts moving again when she hits _six_ , sliding lower. “Where?” he asks, voice soft, and her heart flips over.

“My room.”

“Weird place for a hickey. Am I sucking an electrical socket or what?”

She laughs and tugs him back up for another kiss, which he returns eagerly. _Lovingly_ , she’s pretty sure. “I don’t actually want anyone to interrupt us,” she tells him, and he grins.

“Cool,” he says. “Your room sounds good.”

*

It is, Clarke will grudgingly admit, a nice wedding.

“You think they actually like each other?” Bellamy asks. He’s wearing a suit, so Clarke figures she can make it through twenty minutes of this reception before she drags him off to find a good place to hook up.

“They could,” she says. “They do have a lot in common.”

“I guess.”

She bumps her shoulder against his. “Stranger things have happened.”

His face clears, his laugh sudden and bright. Probably it’s going to be more like ten minutes, if he keeps smiling like that.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Stranger things have.”


	2. Let Me Show You Them Timestamp: Pokemon Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [stayalivelou](http://stayalivelou.tumblr.com)! Original fic [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6728296).

“So, this is, like, everything you’ve ever dreamed of, right? I’m picturing you at, like, twelve, writing letters to Nintendo about how they need to make this app happen. Before you even knew what apps were.”

“My childhood involved a lot less Pokemon than you think it did,” Bellamy says, leaning on the counter as he customizes his Pokemon Go avatar. “I feel like you’re going to dump me when you find out how much time I spent not playing Pokemon. This is the basis of our relationship. I’ve never worried a girl is going to break up with me because I don’t like Pokemon _enough_ before. You’re an experience.”

“I’ve never dated a guy with an extensive collection of stuffed Pokemon before, so this is new for everybody.” She slides his coffee across the counter. “Come on, keep me in the loop about what you’re doing right now. I know I’m going to have to get it, but I was reading some early reviews and I heard the servers are dying all the time, so I thought I should wait for the hype to die down. Or at least until I’m not at work.”

“How am I the nerd if you’re the one reading about Pokemon Go in your spare time? I just downloaded it. You’re doing research.”

“I’m showing appropriate interest in my boyfriend’s interests. That’s part of being a good romantic partner.”

“Oh, that’s what I was missing.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, and he smiles, albeit a little weakly. The truth is, he’s never thought of himself as a particularly good romantic partner. He doesn’t date much, not seriously; he feels like he’s been too busy for this stuff for almost his entire life. He got pretty good at getting laid, when he used to care about that, but he never felt like he could put the time he’d need in for a real relationship.

He still doesn’t feel like that, most of the time. And for all he’s teasing, he _does_ feel a little humbled that Clarke is doing all this stuff for him. Even though it’s summer, he’s doing grad-school classes full time now, and she’s still working around his schedule. There’s no apparent resentment, but it still makes him fret. Even if he can see a universe, somewhere in the distance, where he has free time again, it’s going to be a while. He can’t help worrying that until then, he’s getting so much more out of this relationship than Clarke is.

“Did you know you can get Pikachu for your starter?” she goes on, oblivious to his worry. “I guess I should be telling Octavia that. I know Charmander is your favorite.”

“You get that you’re the best girlfriend ever, right?”

She blinks with obvious surprise. “Because I know Charmander is your favorite original starting Pokemon?”

“Because you’re going to get into Pokemon Go with me, even though you don’t care about it.”

“Are you kidding? I’m psyched.”

It’s his turn to blink; she sounds completely genuine. “You are?”

“It’s going to be awesome. If we’re not a poke-stop, I’m going to make sure we become one. We’ll get a bunch of random people in because of it, and they’ll see my Umbreon and decide they want to hang out more. I can do Pokemon-themed cookies and drinks. We’re gonna be the Pokemon coffee shop. It’s going to happen. I’m in at the start of the fad, and thanks to you I can talk the talk.” She leans across the counter to peck him on the cheek. “Now catch your fire salamander.”

He does, but it keeps on nagging at him a little. It’s not like he _doesn’t_ know plenty of things about Clarke. It’s not like they don’t do things she likes. They watch Netflix and she rants about whatever is bothering her. It’s just–it’s hard not to feel like she could be doing better. As significant others go. Like she’s putting more effort in, even though he really is trying all the time. He’s just worse at it.

So when she suggests they spend one of their few shared days off in the park, playing Pokemon Go, he finds himself saying, “Oh, no.”

“No?” she asks. They’re on the phone, so he can’t see her face, but she sounds confused, and maybe even a little upset.

“We can do something else.” He pulls up google to see if he can find any actual special events going on that weekend, but no luck. “Maybe a museum, or–”

“Are you home right now?”

“Yeah.”

“Great, I’m coming over. Be there in like ten minutes.”

Miller’s out for the night with her friend Monty, which is probably largely for the good; if they’re going to have an argument about Pokemon Go, of all things, he really doesn’t want witnesses.

As soon as he opens the door, she’s kissing him, though, so that’s something.

“I have no idea what’s happening right now,” he admits, and she jabs his chest. Which is more of what he was expecting, but as a follow-up to the kissing, still weird.

“I like you.”

“I know.”

“I like your Pokemon, I like parks, I like spending time with you, I like this stupid game. So stop acting like it’s some huge inconvenience for me to spend time with you. You won’t even text me about cool Pokemon you caught. It’s lik you suddenly think if you like this one thing, I’ll dump you, like it isn’t part of why I started dating you.”

He blinks, swallows hard. “Uh.”

“I love you, Bellamy, and I cannot believe you’re freaking out about it because of a _Pokemon app_.” He’s still too stunned to respond, which gives her time to think this over. “Okay, I can, that actually makes a lot of sense for you. But, seriously, come on.”

“You love me,” he repeats. It’s only been a couple months. He knew he was pretty much gone on her, but–

She’s right; he could do with stopping assuming he’s the only one.

Her expression softens, and she pulls him down to kiss him again. “I don’t get why you think this isn’t awesome for me.”

“Poor upbringing and bad self-esteem,” he says, winding his arms around her and tugging her close. “I don’t have much time to date, I never think of cool stuff for us to do–”

“I own my own business,” she says. “I don’t actually have much more free time than you, I can just be flexible about it. I like coming up with stuff for us to do. If you want to, I don’t mind, but–” She laughs, tucks her face against his neck. “Don’t veto my ideas because you feel bad for not having any of your own. That is honestly the stupidest thing I have ever heard.”

“Yeah, when you put it like that.” He lets himself rest his cheek on her hair. “I love you too. We should definitely go to the park this weekend and catch Pokemon. And you should stay the night tonight.”

“I have to go in early to open. I’ll wake you up.”

“Yeah, I really don’t care. Stay.”

The next morning on his way to class, he hatches a Charmander out of a 2k egg and sends her a screenshot with the caption, _Only 13 more candy to a Charmeleon_.

She responds with a bunch of celebratory emoji and a heart, and he grins for the rest of the day.

He still has no idea how he got this lucky, but he’ll take it. There are worse things in the world to not understand than how his girlfriend is so perfect.

And _her_ 2k egg hatches a Zubat that afternoon, so her life is definitely worse than his. He really can’t complain.


	3. And I Thought I Was So Smart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [youremythief](http://youremythief.tumblr.com)! Prompt: "i have your Christmas present but delivery is gonna take like 9 months.... surprise i'm pregnant!"

In terms of legitimate things to complain about, Clarke is pretty sure “my husband is too good at giving presents and makes me feel inadequate” is really not up there. It’s on about the level of “my diamond shoes are too tight” or “my flawless golden ring is too shiny.” And, really, the problem isn’t even that Bellamy is so great at giving gifts, it’s that he’s both great at giving gifts and impossible to shop for.

Little things are fine. She can almost always find a book he wants to read or a weird toy that he can put on his desk to confuse his students. And he’s always _happy_ with whatever he gets, which is, in some ways, worse. Somehow the fact that he neither notices or cares that she is categorically worse at gift-giving than he is, so she knows she is the only one stressing about this and he will be happy no matter what.

Her diamond shoes are way too tight.

Last year, she solved the problem by consulting with Monty for weeks, making several pros and cons lists, and finally getting him a Playstation, which he really enjoys. And, as a bonus, it got her through his birthday too, because she just bought him games.

But she wants to get him the kind of nice, thoughtful presents he gets her. The things he wants without knowing he wants them. That’s his big strength, and that’s where she always feels inadequate.

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” says Raven.

“Yup,” Octavia agrees. “We’re talking about Bell here. Agreeing to marry him was basically a present for the rest of your lives. Anything else you do on top of being his wife is just icing on the cake for him at this point.”

“Wow. You’re romancing Clarke for your brother,” Raven observes. “Nice.”

“I am not. It’s gross, but it’s not like she doesn’t know. This isn’t news.”

“I’m not going to give him a card that says _congratulations, we’re still married_ for Christmas,” Clarke protests. “It’s Christmas! I’m supposed to get him something nice.”

“It’s not Christmas,” says Raven. “It’s October. You have two months to figure out a present. How are you already stressing out?”

“It’s not stressing out. It’s _planning_. So if you guys can be on alert. If you see anything you think he’d like but it’s way too expensive for you to get it–”

“So, you’re having us do your work for you,” says Raven.

“ _Helping_. He’s great at gifts all by himself. I need you guys to make sure I don’t just try painting him something.”

“He’d like if you painted something, though,” Octavia points out. “I don’t get why this is a problem. You actually can’t fail to get him something he likes.”

“Still,” says Clarke, firm. “If you think of anything–”

“If I think of the perfect present for Bell, I’m giving it to him,” says Octavia. “You’re on your own.”

She knows that Raven and Octavia are _right_ , which is the worst part. There’s no logical reason for her to be already fretting about this, and she _is_. At first, she blames it on the changing seasons, because she’s been kind of generally anxious and feeling weird, and when she gets like that, her anxiety likes to have a focus. As focuses go, Christmas presents are weird, but it’s better than, say, obsessively getting into fights on Facebook, which was what Bellamy did when he was worried about his graduate thesis.

But it’s really a lot. So much that even Bellamy notices, which is annoying, because she was trying to keep it quiet. Worrying about Christmas presents is a new level of pathetic. He likes knowing what’s bothering her, but there are lines. Some worries are just too sad.

“You should maybe talk to someone,” he points out, mild, in bed one night.

“You should talk to someone, she mutters, reflexive, and he snorts.

“Solid burn. Seriously, I’m worried,” he adds, sobering. “You know I love hearing you complain about work, but it’s gotten past regular complaining and into, like–” He tugs her close. “Your appetite’s been off and you’ve been tired too. If you’re not worried, that’s cool, but it might be worth going to the doctor or something.”

“It’s stupid,” she mutters.

“It’s not stupid. Well, okay, some of the stress is stupid. But you’re obviously stressed and tired. And you haven’t just gotten a checkup in a while, right? Might as well.”

As Christmas presents go, _remember how I went to the doctor last month_ isn’t particularly inspired. But she figures she might as well make an appointment. If whatever present she ends up getting him sucks, at least she has that as a fallback.

Instead, Dr. Jackson listens carefully to her complaints, nods, and asks, “Have you taken a pregnancy test?”

The question is honestly a surprise. The last time she talked to a doctor about pregnancy, it was because she and Bellamy hadn’t been having any luck with it at all, and Dr. Jackson knows he’d told them it probably wasn’t in the cards.

“No,” she says, slow. “They said the chances were–”

“Low,” he says. “Not zero. Do you remember the date of your last menstruation?”

Clarke answers his questions in something of a daze, Dr. Jackson taking notes as she tries to catch up. She can’t be pregnant. She and Bellamy haven’t even talked about it for months.

But this is a doctor, not a home pregnancy test. She doesn’t need to ask him to do the test twice. It’s right there in black and white.

She drove herself to the appointment, but she honestly doesn’t trust her own ability to control a vehicle right now, so she waits for Bellamy to be done with class and calls him.

“Hey,” he says, all anxiety. “What’s up? Is everything okay? Are you–”

“Everything’s fine,” she says. “But I’m still at the doctor’s, if you want to come over so you can get a ride.”

“Clarke,” he says, because she’s not going to fool him on this one. Not that–everything _is_ fine. She’s just pretty sure she’s in shock.

“Everything is fine and I promise you have nothing to worry about,” she says, firm. “I just want you to come here and drive us home, okay?”

“Yeah. I’ll be right there.”

Miller drops him off ten minutes later, because there is no universe where Clarke calls Bellamy from the doctor’s office and he doesn’t show up as soon as possible. He probably made Miller break a few laws.

She wraps her arms around him and tries not to cry into his shoulder, which definitely doesn’t help.

“Clarke, what–”

“This is your Christmas present, okay? Because I’ve been stressing out about not getting you anything good and it’s been so _stupid_ and–”

“You really need to tell me what’s going on,” he says, tugging her close. “It’s _November 17_ and we’re at the hospital, why are you possibly talking to me about _Christmas_ –”

“You’re getting your present one month early and eight months late,” she says. “I’m pregnant.”

She’s wrapped around him so tight that she can feel every inch of him stiffen, but she’s not worried. It’s only a second before he’s tugging her closer, letting out a relieved laugh.

“I thought you had cancer,” he says, vaguely accusatory, but still laughing.

“I didn’t want to tell you on the _phone_ ,” she says. “And I was shaking so hard I couldn’t drive.”

That gets him to jerk back, eyes roving over her. “This is good news, right?” he asks. “You’re not–”

She tugs him down to kiss him. “It’s good news. Just–I wasn’t expecting it.”

“Yeah.” He rests his forehead on hers. “You’ve been worrying about _Christmas_? Seriously?”

“I’m hormonal. You don’t get to judge me.”

“Not judging, just–I really don’t care what you get me for Christmas. Ever. But especially now.”

“Well, you’re getting a baby,” she says. “And you better like it, because you can’t take it back.”

“Yeah,” he says, grin so wide it looks like it might split his face. “I’m pretty sure I’ll like it.”


	4. Critical Hitting On You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [frak-all](http://frak-all.tumblr.com)! Prompt: Octavia asks Bellamy to DM a short campaign for her and her friends that are staying on campus over the winter break. Clarke gets really into it despite herself.

Octavia’s heart is in the right place; Clarke knows that much. After all, it’s Clarke’s first break on campus, the first time she’s not going home to see her mother.

Her first Christmas without her father.

So it’s sweet of Octavia, to come up with an activity for all of them. Clarke just isn’t sure how she came up with _this_ activity.

“Okay, first step is char-gen,” says Bellamy.

“What’s char-gen?” asks Clarke. She and Lincoln are the only newbies here, which means the two of them are in a one-on-one session with Bellamy while everyone else gets started independently. She’s not convinced it’s a good idea.

“Character generation,” he says. “Basically, you guys are going to form a team to work together and fight evil. In general, it’s good to have a variety of character types, so you might want to try to come up with something that will add to the group. But don’t worry about that too much. The most important thing is to play a character you like.”

Bellamy is in grad school, studying to be a teacher, which Clarke knew intellectually, but she’s never felt it before. Not that they’re particularly close; she mostly sees him when Octavia decides he’s being a loser and drags him out so he can pretend he has a social life, and they end up fighting half the time. Which is kind of fun, but–it’s kind of interesting to see him in helpful instructor mode. It’s cute.

“So, what gaps should we be trying to fill?” Lincoln asks. “For balance.”

“Jasper always plays rogues, O always plays warriors. Monty’s usually a healer, unless he’s feeling unappreciated and decides he wants to let everyone else die. Raven blows things up. Miller’s a bard.”

“A bard?” Clarke asks.

“Bards are awesome!” Miller yells, and Bellamy flips him off, absent.

“Octavia thought I should be a ranger,” Lincoln offers.

“Yeah, that’s probably a good fit. Reclusive hunters, like animals. Clarke?”

“I don’t know what my options are. I like healers, I guess? But I don’t want to be useless in a fight.”

“Maybe a druid,” he says. “They’re nature-oriented too, so you and Lincoln could know each other, which would work pretty well. Backstory is good.” He opens up one of his thousand books. “Take a look at the other options and see what you’re into. Let me know when you guys are ready and we’ll do the sheets.”

Forty minutes later, Clarke and Lincoln have made a pair of half-siblings, an elf druid and a half-elf ranger, respectively, and come up with a decently cool backstory for them. Clarke is actually _excited_ about the whole thing, which she wasn’t expecting. Honestly, when Octavia said they were going to play D &D, she’d been pretty worried.

And then, Bellamy starts talking.

Even with half of their participants cracking jokes and sarcastic comments, Bellamy is kind of mesmerizing as a DM. Clarke’s always liked his voice, but she hadn’t really thought of him as a storyteller, and the way he sets the scene is perfect, and it’s not long before she’s totally sucked in.

“Oh god, we should have seen this coming,” says Jasper. “The balance of power has shifted.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Clarke demands.

“You and Lincoln are going to be _serious roleplayers_ ,” he says. “Which means we’re going to have to actually roleplay.”

“Isn’t that the idea?” Lincoln asks.

“Usually we don’t bother actually coming up with characters or personalities or anything,” Monty says. “It’s just us, running around fighting monsters.”

“Hey, I always have a backstory and personality,” says Miller. “I can roleplay and make fun of Bellamy at the same time.”

“Dual-specialization,” says Bellamy. “It’s more fun if you get into it,” he adds, to Jasper. “Give it a try.” And then he smiles at Clarke, which–yeah. It’s a lot. “Okay, so, you just saw the sign looking for adventurers. What’s the plan?”

*

Wells comes the next day, half because he has a crush on Raven and half because he rightly guesses that this is going to actually be a _thing_ , and he doesn’t want to be left out. He is, of course, on the serious roleplaying side, and Bellamy actually seems mildly confused by the need to be a DM who deals with people actually trying to play the game correctly.

“I’ve got maps,” he says. “And storylines. I just usually don’t get to use them.”

“I had to make up a personality,” Jasper says.

“It’s basically just you, if you were a hobbit,” Monty says.

“Which you kind of are,” Miller adds.

“Still,” Jasper says. “ _Roleplaying_.”

“Shut up, it’s kind of fun,” Raven shoots back. “Come on, Bellamy. Work your DM magic.”

And he does. In response to his players’ increased interest in roleplaying, he steps up his own content, and suddenly they’re all spending basically all their waking hours on the campaign. The long-term players like Jasper and Monty are stuck between delight and horror, since it’s basically the best D&D of their lives, but also _more_ D &D than they’ve ever played. At a much more serious level. And the new players don’t have much of a baseline, but if this is what D&D is, then Clarke is definitely a plan.

Two days before Christmas, the game hits something of a wrinkle for her.

She’d already been having the problem that Bellamy was hot, and smart, and very, very engaging, but it was easy to, if not ignore her attraction, then at least keep it under control. After all, it would be awkward to try to jump him in his and Octavia’s living room with all their friends there.

Which is why it’s such a problem when he says, “On the way out of the inn, the innkeeper calls–” There’s the roll of a die behind the DM screen, and she can see him counting people around the table, until he hits her. “Aliana. Over to the counter.”

“ _How can I help you_?” Clarke asks.

“ _This letter was left for you last night_ ,” he tells her.

“What does it say?”

“It’s sealed with red wax, no insignia or other identifying marks you can see. When you open it, it’s just a few lines: _I have information on the Stygian Guard for you. I know the location of their base. Meet me in the Eagle Tavern tonight, at the sixth bell. Come alone or not at all._ ”

They spend half an hour debating, which ends up coming down to Lincoln not wanting her to be in danger in case of a trap and Clarke convinced it’s worth the risk. It’s exhilarating when she wins the (in-character) argument, until Bellamy says, “Uh, I guess it probably does need to be a private meeting, if you guys aren’t sending anyone else along.”

“We can go pick up lunch,” Octavia suggests. “If we pick something up, that gives you guys at least half an hour.”

“Yeah, that should be enough time. Thanks.”

And then, after the orders are taken and everyone else has piled into cars, she’s suddenly alone with Bellamy.

“I guess we didn’t have anything else to do during the day,” she teases, and he smiles.

“Well, it’s not like you guys had any leads.”

“We might have found some.”

“I assume even if you did, you were going to take the meeting,” he says. “What did you want to be doing?”

“Looking for leads.”

“Roll for–” He considers. “Intelligence, I guess.”

She does the check, and he nods. “You find some rumors. A couple people tell you they lost friends and relatives to the bandits. One person says she heard they were lead by a necromancer, another that it’s a council of dark priests. All of them agree that the organization is too much for regular bandits and that they must have a higher purpose.” He pauses. “I’m going to make the executive decision that no one finds anything else that might help you.”

She laughs. “Spoilers.”

“It’s rigged.”

“So, I’ll go to the tavern a little early, see if I can spot the contact.”

“Roll perception.”

“Eighteen.”

“Yeah, it’s a sketchy tavern. Almost everyone here looks like they’re waiting for a secret meeting. You should have asked your contact to wear a red rose in their lapel or something.”

“Okay, yeah, I guess I should have seen that coming. Any empty tables with relative privacy?”

“A few, yeah.”

“I’ll grab an ale and wait.”

“Okay, you wait for a bit, a guy comes by to hit on you–”

It’s clearly scene-setting, but Clarke can’t resist the urge to mess with him. “Is he hot?”

“What?”

“The guy hitting on me. Is he hot? What does he look like?”

“Uh. He’s–” She hears some dice. “Fuck.”

“What?”

“Tall, dark hair, dark eyes, and I rolled a natural twenty on how hot he is.”

“So he’s incredibly hot.”

“Incredibly.”

“So–hit on me.”

He jerks up, looking vaguely panicked. “What?”

“This is a roleplaying game, and he’s hitting on me. How am I supposed to know if I’m interested if I don’t know what he’s saying?”

“Uh, he’s–” More dice. “He’s really good at it, fuck.”

“You’re going to need to give me more than that.”

“What about me spending my Christmas vacation DMing for my sister makes you think I’m going to be able to convincingly be really good at hitting on you?” he grumbles.

“I know you’ve gotten laid at some point in your life. I assume being really hot helps.”

There’s a pause where she realizes what she said and he must too, and she scrambles to think of a good excuse before he says, “So, you’ll give me some leeway because I rolled a twenty on his looks?”

“Yeah.”

His tongue darts out to wet his lips. “ _Is this seat taken?_ ”

“This sounds like what my contact would say,” she points out. “ _No, go ahead._ ”

“ _I couldn’t help noticing you across the room_ ,” he says. “ _I hate seeing a pretty girl drinking alone._ ”

“ _I’m waiting for someone._ ”

“ _Me, I hope._ ”

She can’t help a smile. “ _I hope so too._ ”

He rubs the back of his neck, looking embarrassed, and she feels a little bad for needling him. But only a little. He started it. “So, uh–”

“He still could be my contact,” she points out. “Also, he’s hot. Maybe I want to sleep with him.”

“So that’s your type?” he asks. “Anyone who rolls a natural twenty on their appearance and you’re all over it?”

There’s something in his voice that makes her feel a little–hopeful. This kind of casual interest like he cares what her type is.

“Dark hair, dark eyes,” she says. “They don’t need to be _that_ tall.”

“Huh. Well, uh–how far do you want to go with this?” he finally asks. “The, uh–flirting with this guy.”

“I should probably let him down easy. If he’s not my contact.”

“Yeah.”

“Mostly because everyone else is going to be back soon, so I need to get the information I’m getting.” She hesitates, but she can’t help adding, “I’d love to see where this conversation is going, though. Later.”

“Another one-on-one session?” he asks. Definitely hopeful.

“Exactly.”

*

Octavia is hanging out with Lincoln after the session anyway, so Clarke just stays. They manage to stay in character for all of ten minutes before she kisses him, and he kisses back willing and eager and hot, hands tangling in her hair.

“I didn’t think I was that good at fake-flirting,” he murmurs against her mouth.

“That natural twenty on hotness goes a long way,” she says. “Lucky you.”

He laughs, trails his mouth down her jaw. “Yeah, lucky me.”


	5. Time's a Gentle Stream (Longer Than It Seems)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [frankchurchillsaysrelax](http://frankchurchillsaysrelax.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: Bellamy has this ability to travel back to different historical eras but he's never been able to control when/where he goes and he's never really minded because y'know, history. But then he meets Clarke on one of his trips and he desperately needs to learn how to get back there ASAP and then has to decide if he wants to stay there or bring her back or be eternally miserable or whatever.

The grad student running the experiment _tells_ Bellamy what it’s about, but with a lot of big words and actual diagrams, but after about ten minutes of that, he gives up and just asks her if she can summarize in five words or less.

“Time travel,” she says, and he snorts.

“Sure. Good luck with that.”

As he gets to know Raven Reyes, though, he becomes less and less skeptical. Not because time travel isn’t inherently fucking impossible, but because Raven is smart on a level he has never encountered with another human being, and if anyone can figure it out, she can.

“What happens to me if this ever works?” he asks. The pay is good, especially for the low time commitment, but he’s not sure he’s prepared to be the world’s first time traveler.

“You get to experience another time and come back and tell us about it.”

“It’s the coming back I’m worried about.”

“Why do you think I’ve got you in here already? I’m making very sure that everything goes absolutely right. I promise I’m not going to strand you in 1955 or anything.”

“Is that the time you’re trying to send me?”

“Nope. 2010.”

“Why 2010? I remember 2010. It wasn’t that great.”

“Because I met you in 2010 and you told me I figured out this whole time-travel thing.”

He takes a minute for that, and then says, “Well, shit.”

“What can I say?” asks Raven. “I’m a genius.”

*

The first time goes exactly according to plan, which doesn’t make it any less surreal. Raven explains exactly what’s going to happen–he’ll be in 2010 for a few hours, and he needs to tell her his name and how she hired him, and as long as that happens, the timeline should be fine. Which makes him curious if he _can_ change the timeline, or if it wouldn’t be possible, but he’s not actually that interested in trying to fuck up Raven’s ability to figure out time travel. He doesn’t want to do anything that might keep him from being able to go home. So he goes to 2010, talks to Raven, and after a couple hours, he returns home. It’s fucking surreal, and he’s not sure he would have agreed to it, if he’d really believed at the start that he’d actually be the first time traveler. But now that that’s out of the way, he figures he’s done with it.

Unfortunately, time travel isn’t done with him. Because after that, Bellamy becomes, not to be too Vonnegut about it, unstuck in time.

It is, at least, pretty predictable: once a week, at the same time as his first successful trip, he’ll feel this strange tug, his eyes close automatically, and suddenly he’s somewhen else. Which is–well, it’s mostly fucking _inconvenient_. There’s a theoretical appeal to time travel, an excitement to experiencing a completely different time, but he’s only there for a few hours a week, and he spends a lot of that trying to figure out when he is, if he’s in immediate danger for being biracial, and making sure that whenever he gets pulled back, he’ll be alone. When he does return to his own time, he tells Raven everything he knows about when he went, how long he was there, what he saw.

He only goes to the past, which Raven says _makes sense_ (but he’s not going to ask why), and it, weirdly, becomes just another part of his routine. He gets some plain cotton clothes that are universally anachronistic in a way that’s not _that_ noticeable in basically any post-colonial era, which is where he most often ends up, and starts to find it, if not unreservedly fun, then at least kind of enjoyable. Raven’s going to fix it eventually, and until she does, he’s only gone from _his_ life for a few minutes at a time. And as it keeps going, patterns start emerging. He leaves a bone on the ground in the time when he can never find other people, and when he’s back there a month later, the bone is too, a little gnawed, but fairly unchanged. After three months, he concludes he only goes to about four different time periods, the one with no signs of civilization, one with a native tribe that he puts somewhere in the 1500s, and then 1884 and 1968.

In 1968, he makes a friend, which he really wasn’t planning to, and really _shouldn’t_ have done. But the easiest thing for him to do when he’s there is just go to the library and hang out until it’s almost time for him to go, so he should have realized the librarian would notice him. No matter how long it is between visits to each time period for _him_ , it seems to only be a week for them, so she sees him as a strangely dressed regular who comes in on Thursday afternoon and never takes out any books.

He should have been more careful.

“You know, we have library cards,” she offers, on his fourth visit. “Not that I mind having you around, but that’s one of the perks. You don’t have to be here to read the books.”

She’s pretty, with wavy blonde hair and bright blue eyes, and Bellamy thinks he shouldn’t talk to her, but–she’s _pretty_. And he doesn’t want to find another place to hang out. He likes the library.

“Maybe I like it here,” he says, and her grin widens.

“Still. It must be frustrating, only getting to read once a week.”

“Like the old days,” he says. “Dickens, one chapter at a time. Don’t want to get carried away.”

“You might run out of books,” she agrees, with a pointed look at the extensive collection. “I can see why you wouldn’t want to take any.”

“Just being safe.”

She offers her hand. “I’m Clarke. If you ever run out of books, let me know. I have plenty of recommendations.”

“Bellamy,” he says, shaking. “I’ll keep you in mind.”

And then she’s there every time he shows up, and he starts saying hi because she looks bored, and then they start chatting, and he finds out she’s twenty-two, lives alone, and likes art. He also hears a lot of things she _doesn’t_ say, about her family and her past, and when he realizes he wants to know about those too, he realizes he’s not only in trouble, but in too deep to get out of it.

He likes her. He wants to see her more, and it sucks that he’s got about three hours once a month or so. Especially once she starts hinting _she’d_ like to see _him_ more too, asking what he’s doing later, mentioning places she’ll be and just, generally, being very cute and obviously interested in him.

“You could just look her up now,” Raven points out. “Twenty-two in 1968, so born in 1946. So she’d be 70. Is that still cougar material, or do they time out at sixty-nine?”

“Shit,” he says.

“What?”

“She could still _live here_ ,” he says. “I’ve never seen her at the library, but maybe I just don’t recognize her. Fuck. That would be so fucking weird.”

“At least she’s not from 1884. Then you’d know she was dead.”

“Yeah, but–” He rubs his face. “It’s kind of weirder, knowing she could be around somewhere. I don’t want to run into her and she recognizes me.”

There’s a long pause, and then Raven asks, “Is it that serious? I know you’re hot, but she’s seeing you once a week at work. Might not be a big deal to her, fifty years later.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” he agrees, only to be proved definitely wrong the next time he sees her.

“Hey, we got in some new books!” she says, by way of greeting.

“Wow, new books at a library,” he teases. “That never happens.”

“I think you’d like them,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Come on.”

He follows her and only realizes she’s taken him to the back of the stacks, somewhere secluded and empty, when she tugs him down to kiss him. Her mouth is soft and warm, and before he’s really thought through how bad an idea it is, his hand is tangled in her hair and he’s kissing back.

“Good,” Clarke murmurs against his mouth, grinning, and his stomach turns over. Because–it _is_. It’s really good. “So, are you going to buy me dinner?”

He groans and drops his forehead onto her shoulder. “Uh, no. I’m not. And you’re never going to believe why I’m not.”

She stiffens, and he feels like the biggest asshole of all time. He _wants_ to take her to dinner. He wants to take her home and introduce her to his friends and just–he’s kind of stupidly crazy about her. “Married?” she asks.

“Fuck, no. Not–I’m a time traveler from the future,” he says, and she pulls back, which he deserves. He’s not sure he’s ever seen another human look so pissed. “Seriously,” he adds. “It’s true. I–"He gets his wallet out. “Uh, driver’s license, born 1990. Credit card expiring in 2018. I haven’t looked at the dates on the cash, but–I’m telling the truth, Clarke.”

She holds her hand out, and he puts the wallet in it, watching as she thumbs through, examining all the random things he has. It paints a consistent picture, because it’s _true_ , but–

“I’m here for about three hours a week, until the grad student who did it figures out how to stop it.”

“So you’re not trying to tell me this is normal in–”

“2016,” he supplies. “Almost 2017. And it’s not normal. A lot of weird stuff is, but–not time travel. As far as I know, I’m the only one. It’s not that–” he can’t help adding. “God, Clarke, it’s not that I don’t want to take you out to dinner. I wish I could.”

Her thumb rubs over the picture on his license. “That’s definitely a new excuse,” she says. “So–you’re going to stop coming? When the grad student figures it out?”

“Yeah,” he says. He runs his hand through his hair. “Fuck. I’m so sorry.”

She worries her lip, and then asks, “So–what’s it like?”

He’s still talking to her when he disappears, mid-sentence, and when he finds himself alone in his room, he feels profoundly empty.

*

She doesn’t dump him. Not that they’re dating, but the next time he’s back, she pulls him off to make out through her break, murmuring, “I want as much of you as I can get,” and he just tugs her closer. They chat, and he tells her about the future hesitantly, weirdly hopefully. He’s honest about the good and the bad, and she’s happy to hear civil rights are getting there, upset about Donald Trump and the super rich, curious about technology.

She opens up about herself, how she left home because her parents found her with another girl.

“Which doesn’t mean I can’t like you,” she says, poking him in the chest. “I can like women as well as–”

He ducks his head to kiss her. She changed her schedule as soon as she could, so she’s off during the afternoon he’s there, and they go to her place and hang out.

Maybe they are dating.

“I know,” he says. “The word you’re looking for is _bisexual_. I am too. It’s not–I can tell everyone. My family. Some people are still assholes about it, but–I’ve never been worried.”

“That must be nice,” she says, and he just holds on.

It’s two months and three trips to see Clarke after he told her who he really was when Raven calls and tells him she figured out how to fix him.

“Fix me how?”

“Re-stick you,” she says. “You stay–here, I assume. Unless you got attached.”

Bellamy has a life. He’s in school. He’s got enough money for the first time in his life. And Clarke is–he doesn’t think she’s happy. It’s not just about romance or whatever. She doesn’t have many friends, she doesn’t feel like she belongs anywhere.

“You ever look into her?” Raven asks, while he’s still thinking about it.

“What about her?”

“Clarke Griffin. Librarian. Disappeared 9/13/1968. Which is coming up.”

“Disappeared?” he asks.

“You couldn’t find her here. Unless you could.”

He swallows. “Do you, uh–could I bring her back? If I wanted to.”

There’s a long pause. “I figured out how to keep you from going months ago,” she says. “I was waiting to make sure you could bring her back.”

He barks out a short laugh. “You know you’re the weirdest mad scientist fairy god mother ever, yeah?”

“That’s the aesthetic I go for.” Another pause and then, “I ran the dates. I figured that must have been what happened. So if I didn’t figure out how to do it, I was going to change history.”

“How do you ask a girl if she wants to move to the future with you?” he asks.

“There’s probably an ecard,” Raven says. “Stop by the lab whenever, I’ll tell you how it works.”

*

How it works, in the end, is that he asks, and she says yes, and everything else, well–

They’ve got time.


	6. If Someone Said I'd Be So Dumb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [midnightlich](http://midnightlich.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: I just took a really stupid risk for a chance to be with you.

Bellamy would not recommend that anyone fall in love with a princess. It is, objectively speaking, a terrible idea. It’s probably better if you’re a prince yourself, but even if you are, there are still all these hoops to jump through, and they are really, really not worth it.

Except they are, of course. That’s the whole problem.

Here’s how it happened: once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess. In the tradition of beautiful princesses, there were complications with her conception, problems her parents overcame by making a deal with a witch, and the deal had a price they assumed they’d be able to pay. And, of course, they could. Putting your daughter in a tower at the end of a dangerous journey is a great way to make sure she ends up married to someone who really wants her. Or at least really loves danger.

It’s also fucking _deranged_ , in Bellamy’s opinion, but they’re royalty. Royals are always deranged.

Which is, again, why he does not recommend anyone getting involved with a princess. But sometime after Clarke’s birth and before her being locked in a tower, they get to be–friends.

This part of the story, Bellamy likes. Because Clarke _isn’t_ every other princess in the world. Other princesses would have had him punished, when they first met, because it was not, by any standard, a _good_ meeting. It was the end of a long day, he was in a sour mood, and Clarke came in making demands for a gown without so much as a by your leave.

He’d told her that if she wasn’t willing to treat him with a modicum of respect, he had no need for her coin, and she opened and closed her mouth twice before leaving without another word.

The next morning, she returned and said, “I’m sorry, I was rude to you yesterday. I’m in need of a dress, and I heard you were the best. I hope my coin is still good here.”

He felt his own mouth twitch. “I was having a bad day myself,” he admits. “I love everyone’s coin, don’t worry.”

She had a nice smile, and a pretty laugh. He noticed both those things, but he didn’t notice she was the _princess_ , not until O came home and rushed to show her respect, dropping into a curtsy and calling Clarke _your highness_.

“Oh fuck,” Bellamy said without thinking, and Clarke laughed again.

And, just like that, he was friends with a princess. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t sometimes wonder about her marriage; he was only seventeen when they met, and she only fifteen, but as a princess, marriage was a large part of her life. And he wouldn’t have minded it being a part of his.

“Someone will kill a dragon sooner or later,” was her inevitable response, when anyone asked, and some small part of him always wondered if it could really be that _easy_. Anyone could kill a dragon; it was a lot easier than being born a noble.

So, really, he has no one but himself to blame for the whole thing. He’s the one who fell in love with a princess, a _cursed_ princess, no less, and he’s the one who thought fighting a dragon wouldn’t be so bad.

Clarke stops by the day before her eighteenth birthday to say goodbye, which–he somehow didn’t think of that. He didn’t realize she’d _leave_.

“Goodbye?” he asks. “Where are you going?”

She rolls her eyes. “Cursed princess,” she says. “Eighteen is the traditional age for curses to set in.”

“Not everyone is as informed about curses as you are.” He swallows. “What’s–what is it? What are you doing?”

Her shrug is a little too casual to be believable. “The usual. Stuck in an isolated tower until someone fights their way through whatever perils the witch came up with. And then I marry them.”

“This is a shitty form of government,” he points out. “You, uh–you have any takers?”

“A few princes are on their way, according to my mother. None I’m very excited about.”

“Are there princes you’re excited about? Other princesses?”

“No.”

He bites the corner of his mouth. “Do you know where it is?”

“Yeah. Anyone can find out.”

“Right.”

“It’s not like I _want_ anyone I like to come,” she bursts out. He raises his eyebrows, and she blushes. “It’s awful, asking someone to–I’ll marry someone who’s spent their whole life getting ready for this. I wouldn’t ask anyone to put their life in danger for me. I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

“But there’s, uh–if you could just get married, there’s someone you’d want?” he asks. He’s pretty sure they’re having the same conversation. Her eyes keep darting to his in a very telling way.

“Yeah,” she says, soft. “But I’m pretty sure he can do better, so–” She leans up and presses her lips against his cheek. “Take care of yourself, Bellamy.”

And, granted, going on a quest to rescue her from a cursed tower is kind of the opposite of taking care of himself. But, given the option, he’d much rather take care of _her_.

Besides, most of the royals he’s met have been basically useless, with Clarke being an exception, so he doesn’t see how it can be that _hard_. If a prince can save her, Bellamy can too.

“You’re going to die,” Octavia says, flat, but he’s pretty sure she doesn’t mean it. If she really meant it, she’d probably sound more upset and less unimpressed. He hopes.

“Everyone’s going to die,” he retorts. “I might as well try to be a prince before I go, right?”

It’s not hard to find out where Clarke is, geographically. It becomes common knowledge within days of her leaving, an instant legend. Princess Clarke, who now lives at the top of a tower in the middle of a deep, dark forest, guarded by a fierce dragon. All standard stuff.

Bellamy’s a tailor by profession, taking up the business after his mother died. He’s not a hero, particularly. But he has read a lot, and talked to Clarke a lot. He knows all the stories about how brave princes overcome great obstacles for love, and he knows his steps. There’s a _formula_ here.

Which is how he ends up fighting a dragon with the cursed knight who helped guide him through the forest. It would be really helpful, if he wasn’t cursed to be a hedgehog.

“Don’t you at least have some fighting tips?” he asks, narrowly dodging a burst of flame. “Or were you a shitty knight?”

“I had armor. And weapons. My entire life philosophy wasn’t _I’m in love with a princess so it’s going to work out_ ,” says Miller.

“Didn’t not liking princesses get you cursed in the first place?” he retorts. “Because you turned down a witch?”

“Not my fault I’m so irresistible.” He peers around the rock, tiny little hedgehog nose twitching. “You’re going to make sure you break my curse if you survive, right?”

“Yeah,” says Bellamy. “I promise.”

“Okay, so–you need to talk to the dragon.”

“What?”

“Come on, why not?”

“That’s your fucking insight? Aren’t you supposed to do something–better? Distract it so I can kill it or whatever?”

“How are you going to kill it? Your sword is awful and you have no combat experience. But you never shut up, so–”

“I don’t know why I thought I’d get a _good_ animal sidekick,” he grumbles. “If that thing kills me before I can do anything, go back to my kingdom, okay? Tell my sister I died doing something cool.”

“You’re seriously overestimating the migratory abilities of hedgehogs,” says Miller. “Don’t die.”

“Thanks.” He waits until he hears another spit of flame–it seems to have a recovery time, so he’ll be safe from fire for a few minutes, at least–and then sticks his head over the boulder. The dragon is very large and very angry. “Hey,” he tries, with a wave, and it roars. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Okay. Look–is there something I can do for you? Do you want anything?”

The dragon pauses, cocks its head at him.

It’s more than he was expecting, honestly. “I don’t know what your deal is,” he says. “But all I want to do is get my friend out of the tower. I don’t really want a fight.”

“Because you’d _lose_ ,” says the dragon.

He wasn’t really expecting an actual verbal response, and it makes him feel a lot better. “Yeah.”

“You’re not a very good hero, princeling.”

“Not a hero or a prince,” he says. “Just a tailor.”

“And why is a _tailor_ risking his life for a princess? Do you think she will give you gold and jewels? Do you think she’ll give you glory?” Flame curls around the dragon’s nostrils. “If that is your wish–”

“No,” he says. “I miss her, okay? I just want her to come home.”

“Don’t lie to the dragon,” Miller hisses.

“And then I want to marry her,” he admits. “If she wants.”

The dragon snorts again. “If _she_ wants. As if her feelings matter to you.”

He’s acutely aware that Clarke told him not to come, without actually saying it, and he came anyway. But–it wasn’t because he didn’t care about her feelings. He just thinks she’s worth the risk.

“You could ask her,” he says. “I need to get to the top of the tower anyway. Give me a lift, and if the princess doesn’t want me, I’ll leave.”

The dragon laughs, which is honestly scarier than the fire-breathing. He doesn’t want to amuse a dragon, honestly. “If she doesn’t want you, I will get a fine meal,” it says.

“I’m not sure I’d be a great meal,” he admits. “But deal. Take me to the princess, and if she doesn’t want to leave with me, you can eat me.”

It’s not like Clarke can _like_ being stuck in a tower; even if she doesn’t want to marry him, he assumes she wants to leave. It would be sad, but–as long as she just _comes back_ , he’ll be happy.

Happy enough, anyway.

The window is empty, which doesn’t really surprise him. If Bellamy were stuck in a tower with a dragon murdering people trying to rescue him, he wouldn’t want to watch the carnage either.

He climbs through the window anyway, looks around for her. She’s sitting against the wall, staring forward, jaw set, and he wonders how many princes have died for her in the weeks he’s been making his way to her.

“Hey,” he tries, and she jerks up, staring.

“Bellamy,” she says.

“Hey,” he says again. He can’t read her voice, and she’s not moving, until–

Until suddenly she is, whirling on him, _furious_. “What the fuck, Bellamy! I can’t believe you fucking _came here_ , what if you’d _died_ , I saw you down there and I thought–”

He brings his hands up to hold her arms, gentle. “If you don’t act like you’re happy to see me, the dragon might still eat me,” he murmurs. “I told it you liked me to get a ride.”

She stares at him. “You told the dragon I liked you?”

“I wasn’t going to be able to kill it. I found my sword in the woods.”

She buries her face against his shoulder, and he can hear her just breathing him in for a second. He gets it, or thinks he does; he didn’t know it was possible to miss someone so much.

But then she says, “I saw you. I thought it was going to–” He hears her sniffle. “I told you not to come. It was such a fucking stupid–you could have _died_.”

“I didn’t,” he says. “It wasn’t even that hard.” He wraps his arms around her, holding her close. “I’m fine, Clarke. Just tell the dragon you’ll marry me and we can go home. Uh, not that you–” He clears his throat. “You don’t _have_ to marry me. Just tell the dragon you will, or–”

She pulls back enough that she can yank him down to kiss him, which had better be enough for the dragon, because there’s no way he’s just going to _stop_. Not when he’s been waiting for so long.

“I couldn’t not come,” he tells her, when they finally break apart. “It wasn’t–come on, Clarke.”

She ducks her head, smiling. “Just don’t do anything that stupid again.”

“No promises.” He tilts her chin up for another kiss. “I do have a hedgehog we have to get uncursed.”

“Of course you do. And we have a dragon who isn’t dead to deal with.” She sighs and leans against him. “I guess I never said thank you. For rescuing me.”

“You’re welcome,” he says. “Any time.”

“I’m not going to take you up on that,” she says, and he laughs.

“Yeah. Let’s not.”


	7. Sing to Me, Muse - Clarke POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [millipop](http://millipop.tumblr.com)! Original fic [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6053830).

If you think about it, there’s nothing _wrong_ with flirting with two people, especially when you don’t have a chance with either of them. It’s just–it’s fun. Because, okay, Clarke has had a thing for Bellamy for _years_ , but she’s completely incapable of doing anything useful with it. _Useful_ , in this case, meaning either making a move on him or moving on from him. She mostly just thinks he’s hot, likes arguing with him, and sometimes Octavia will really deliberately and unsubtlely leave them alone and Bellamy will completely fail to notice. It’s fun, but–it’s never going to turn into a _relationship_. He’s not interested in her like that.

So it’s fine, that she also kind of has a thing for Gen.

He’s far from her first fandom crush; Clarke’s been doing this for years, and it’s easy to develop _things_. There’s this weird sort of intimacy to fandom relationships, where you learn a lot about things people don’t usually talk about, but miss a lot of basics. Plenty of times, Clarke has wondered idly if something could happen between her and her favorite fanfic writer, only to be caught off guard when they mention that they’re straight or taken or live in another country.

The first time something happens like that with Gen, it’s when she sees he’s a _guy_ , which–she doesn’t know a lot of men like Gen in fandom, guys who write shipfic and seem to enjoy romance, which is probably why it’s such a surprise. It takes a little getting used to, which bothers her in terms of her own internal prejudices, but once she has, she just likes him. He’s smart and funny and has good opinions on canon, and she looks forward to talking to him. It’s nothing serious–she knows even less about him than she does about most of her fandom friends–but it’s still a little bit exciting.

And it’s fine to flirt with him and Bellamy both. Even if Octavia keeps side-eyeing her.

“I’m just saying,” O says. “You can either spend your night here, alone, on your computer, talking to a guy you’ve never seen who might not even live in your country, or you can come on a double date. I’m flirting with Lincoln, you can come flirt with Bellamy. It’ll be fun.”

“It really won’t,” she says, trying to make herself believe it. Bellamy’s always fun.

“He hasn’t met Lincoln yet and he’s going to be a total dick about it. You can make fun of him for being overprotective. And he was asking why you hadn’t been around this week.”

“I haven’t been around because I’ve been working on fandom stuff. With a guy online _you_ set me up with. I’m getting mixed signals from you.”

“You’re really not,” Octavia says, cheerful. “Come on, double date? Tonight? You’re in, right?”

She sighs, looks at the piece she’s working on. She can probably have it done by the time she needs to leave for the Blakes’.

“I’m in, yeah.”

She still can’t help mentioning it to Gen, just–so he knows. She’s going on a date. Granted, it’s a double date and it’s probably just going to be her distracting Bellamy with stupid arguments so he won’t be a dick to Lincoln, but–they will be at dinner in a restaurant.

And Bellamy did apparently ask where she’d been. It hasn’t even been very _long_.

If Gen is jealous or even phased, he gives no indication, and that’s fine too. None of her weird things are going anywhere. They’re still sort of fun to have.

Bellamy’s in his pajamas when she gets to their apartment, which is her first indication something’s up.

“Hey,” she says, wary. “Octavia said we were doing dinner?”

“She’s probably just running late,” he says. He pushes his hair off his forehead and straightens his glasses. “You can come in and wait for her.”

She has no idea what Octavia’s plan could be, but she follows Bellamy in anyway. She came mostly to hang out with him, and Octavia coming up with excuses to leave them alone isn’t actually new. She’s just not sure why Octavia was giving her the run-around on this one, but–Octavia moves in mysterious ways.

She and Bellamy are on the couch, heckling Wheel of Fortune, when O gets out of the shower. “Clarke! Come on, I just need to get changed.”

“Does she do that with all her friends?” Bellamy asks, mild. “The casual nudity?”

“I assume she’s trying to seduce me.”

“Yeah, that must be it,” he says, and deliberately turns his attention back to his phone, like he’s giving her permission to go.

“So, change in plans,” Octavia says.

“Yeah, I kind of figured. Even Bellamy knows to get dressed for restaurants.”

O rolls her eyes. “Sorry, did you not want to do your weird flirting with him tonight? Were you not looking forward to it?”

“I was,” she admits, and goes along with it when Octavia pretends that Lincoln inviting her to the gallery is news. Part of her can’t wondering if she knew that when she invited _Clarke_ over, but she can’t figure out the game there.

But again, Octavia moves in mysterious ways.

They watch _Olympus_ , which was a terrible idea, because she really didn’t need to know that Bellamy has strong opinions on the show, and likes _Demetrius_ , because of course he does, and–

She goes home to talk to Gen, and it doesn’t really help much.

The world is full of people she wants and can’t have. News at eleven.

*

The first time she mentions the art show, it’s theoretical.

“Lincoln said they might have room for me in the next show,” she says, ostensibly to Octavia, but Bellamy is right here. “Which would be really cool.”

“Really? That would be awesome! Did you hear that, Bell?”

It’s a little weird, that Octavia is such a good wingwoman. She didn’t think siblings were supposed to be really invested in each others’ relationships, but the Blakes have always been weird, so maybe it’s just them. She could believe that.

“Yeah,” he says, and offers her an actual smile. “That’s really cool, Clarke.”

“Keep us posted,” O adds, pointed, and Bellamy doesn’t agree, but–Clarke figures she will anyway.

*

**bisexualskywalkers** : Art is so hard.  
 **hail-attolis** : Why do you think I don’t do it?  
 **bisexualskywalkers** : You’re the least helpful.  
 **hail-attolis** : I know.   
I got another chapter. You want it?  
 **bisexualskywalkers** : Yeah, send it over.

*

The second time she mentions the art show, Octavia is in the shower while she and Bellamy play video games.

“Did I tell you I got the place in Lincoln’s show?”

“No,” he says. “But I sort of figured.”

“You figured?”

He shrugs. “You’re awesome. Why wouldn’t you get the spot?”

She feels warm down to her toes. “Thanks.”

*

The third time and fourth times, she gives the dates, and, granted, she’s giving them to Octavia, but–she was still kind of hoping. The two of them have been getting along, and she thought–well, she thought he’d maybe come along. He did ask her to repeat the date once, so–he knows.

And, honestly, she assumes Octavia is working this whole stupid matchmaking thing from both directions, so if Bellamy doesn’t come, it means his sister couldn’t talk him into it.

When he doesn’t show up, it feels like that should be it. The sign she’s been looking for, to finally give up on him. And move on to–maybe not Gen. She still doesn’t know the first thing about Gen. But _someone_.

**hail-attolis** : Help me with this chapter?  
 **bisexualskywalkers** : I wish I could  
At a thing, so bored, everyone is even more pretentious than you are  
 **hail-attolis** : That sounds like a challenge.  
I could be more pretentious.  
 **bisexualskywalkers** : Could you? Really?  
That’s a terrifying thought  
Shit, someone is coming over  
Don’t be more pretentious  
Brb

“Are you seriously texting Gen right now?” she asks. “Pathetic.”

“Well, it’s not like your brother showed up for me to flirt with,” she points out.

“I know. We should do a selfie for tumblr. Gen doesn’t know how hot you are, right?”

“If you insist,” Clarke says, and leans in so Lincoln can get a shot of both of them. “This isn’t technically a selfie.”

“Lincoln’s basically a selfie stick,” O says, dismissive, and he huffs out a soft laugh.

“Thank you. Appreciated.” He hands the phone back, and Clarke and Octavia both check the picture. She looks gorgeous; she might have dressed up for this.

“Can you send that to Bellamy?” she asks. It’s not like it’s a secret that she has a huge, stupid thing for him. It’s not news to anyone, especially not Octavia.

“Oh yeah,” Octavia agrees. “He’s definitely going to see this one.”

She keeps checking her phone in case Gen has responded or even liked the post, but there’s nothing. _And_ no Bellamy.

This is the problem with multiple crushes: it’s not like it’s _better_ , when two things don’t work out.

“–on both,” she hears, and when she whips her head around, Bellamy is there, actually dressed up for once, wearing a nicely ironed shirt and slacks. He didn’t put his contacts back in, but–Clarke likes his glasses better anyway.

When he looks her way, she grins at him, so wide it’s honestly a little embarrassing, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He just smiles back, gives a dorky little wave, and comes over.

“Hey!” she says. “You came! I was hoping you would.”

His smile is a little off, but his tone is teasing. “There was an easy way to make that happen. You just had to ask.”

“Well, yeah. But that takes all the mystery out of it.” She tucks her hair back, hoping he won’t notice her flush. “You want to see mine? It’s over on this side.”

His discomfort only deepens, and she doesn’t get it at all–he came to an _art show_ , he must have been expecting art–until he admits, “I actually already saw some of it. You put it on tumblr.”

Clarke’s whole body goes cold. It’s not so much the idea of him seeing her tumblr; it’s not like she posts anything particularly embarrassing. It’s–honestly, it’s the idea of him seeing her stuff about _Gen_ , of him wondering if maybe she had a thing for this random guy. Not that Gen is _random_ , just–

Having feels suck. Having double feelings sucks _even more_

“I didn’t know you–” she manages, and he rushes to correct her.

“I didn’t either,” he says, and she doesn’t really know what that means. “O tagged you in a selfie. That’s, uh, why I came.”

“This isn’t actually clarifying what’s happening,” she tells him. She’s basically lost.

He points to himself. “Eugenides. Gen. You’ve probably seen those books in our apartment. _The Queen of Attolia_ was on the kitchen counter for like a year.”

“Why would I notice that?” she asks, before she’s really processed what he said. She’d never even _heard of the book_ , not until–well, not until Gen. Gen, who is Bellamy. Who saw a picture of her and rushed to get dressed and come down here and see her.

Her laughter surprises her, but he looks relieved. “Holy shit,” she says. “I’m going to kill your sister.”

“She says she thought we’d notice on our own.” He licks his lips again, “I did tell her I didn’t want anyone on Tumblr to know who I was,” he offers, hesitant.

“No, she was–god.” The match-making makes both more and less sense now, but she guesses that when both of them asked Octavia not to tell anyone their secret identities, it is kind of–awkward. And, honestly, Octavia was probably loving it. “Wow.” She gives him a wry smile. “I was hoping you–Gen–would see the picture and think I looked hot.”

“I did, yeah.” He flushes. “Sorry.”

“Sorry?”

He looks so nervous and hopeful that her heart soars. “Probably not who you were–” he starts, and she takes his hand and squeezes. It’s not like she didn’t want both of them to think she looked hot.

“I told her to text you the picture too. To get you to show up and appreciate my cleavage.”

“Oh,” he says. He tangles his fingers with hers, holding on, firm. “Uh, so I can see the pictures? I mean the ones you did, not the–” he clears his throat, and she adores him. Even more than she thought she did. He’s not _just_ Bellamy. “I bet they look better in real life.”

Since they’re already holding hands, it’s easy to tug him towards her pictures. “Most things do, yeah. My cleavage included,” she adds, and he definitely trips a little as he follows her. “I can’t believe you didn’t recognize the art style.”

“It’s not like you show me a lot of your pictures.”

“I thought Octavia had. You always tell me how talented I am.”

“Of course I do. You’re good at everything.”

She squeezes his fingers. “I want that in writing. You’ve definitely told me all sorts of things I’m bad at.”

“Okay, yeah, but–I knew you’d be a good artist. It was obvious.” He leans closer, inspecting, all earnest interest, and she’s obviously really excited about _her first show_ , but she’s even more excited that she gets to share it with him. “These are amazing. So much better in person. And they were good before.”

“It’s weird to have you being so nice to me,” she teases.

“Sorry. It’s not my fault you’re a good artist and you look gorgeous.” His mouth tugs up in a smile. “Sorry, it’s, uh–kind of nice to be able to say it. I can lay off, if you–”

She tugs him around to face her, sliding her free hand behind his neck. “I never said it was _bad_ weird.”

“Good,” he says, and leans down to kiss her. It feels like the first time they’ve been on the same page, but–apparently they’ve been on the same page for a while. Just–different sides of it.

“I need to talk to people,” she murmurs, smiling. “I can’t just make out the whole time.”

“Not the _whole_ time,” he says. He pecks her once more, quick. “It’s really great, Clarke.”

“Yeah,” she agrees. “It really is.”

*

Anonymous asked: i ship you and bisexualskywalkers, is that weird?  
 **hail-attolis** replied: Kind of, but it’s canon, so I guess I can’t blame you.


	8. regardless of warnings the future doesn't scare me at all - Bellamy POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [live-laugh-loaf](http://live-laugh-loaf.tumblr.com/)! Original fic [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4637922).

The first stray Bellamy adopted was a cat he and Octavia found when he was nine and she was four. She was an older, bedraggled thing, and Octavia didn’t even want her. She wanted a kitten, but Bellamy didn’t know how to just let the cat go. She needed them.

He came up with all sorts of arguments for his mother about why they _should_ keep the cat, wrote lists, but at the end of the day, both his mother _and_ his baby sister saw right through him. He wasn’t being noble or moral or anything like that. Or, if he was, it wasn’t his primary motivation.

Really, he liked the cat, and he wanted to keep it. He could turn himself inside out coming up with justifications, but that was the simple truth of it. He would have taken her to a shelter, if he didn’t like her. But the second he saw the cat, alone and scared, he knew he wasn’t giving her up.

It was a little more complicated with Clarke, but not that much more. You don’t just get to decide to keep people the same way you do with pets; Clarke doesn’t _have_ to stay.

But all his logic, all his reasons, all his justifications just come from the simple fact that he wants her to. It feels even more transparent and obvious than the cat, and that’s what makes it so amazing that she has _no fucking clue_.

Of course, it doesn’t start out quite that clearly. It starts off with Octavia leaning into the kitchen to tell him that Jake Griffin’s daughter has stopped by. Bellamy remembers her, vaguely; he hadn’t disapproved of her, not really, because he knew it wasn’t her fault that she’d left her father. Divorce is messy, and just because Jake missed Clarke, it didn’t make her a bad daughter. They still talked; she still seemed to love him.

But he wasn’t ready for the sight of her, this tired, defiant woman who can’t possibly be staying. He knows about Clarke’s life. Jake was so fucking proud. She was going to _Yale_. Rich, beautiful girls who went to Yale don’t live here. They barely even pass through here. She’s probably getting dinner and stopping at her father’s grave on her way to DC.

“Did you ever meet my brother Bellamy?” O is asking her. “He was friends with your dad.”

“We weren’t friends, O, I worked for him.” He tries out a smile on her. He has no idea what she’d ever be doing here, but he might as well be nice. “Clarke, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Good to see you. Sorry about your dad. He was a good guy.”

“Thanks.”

She looks so fucking worn out, he feels bad just talking to her. She should go home and go to sleep.

He nods his goodbye, but Octavia grabs him before he can get away. “God, Bell, wait a second, okay? What’s your plan?” she asks Clarke.

Clarke looks wary. “For what?”

“Tonight, for a start. Have you been driving all day?”

She shrugs, and Bellamy nearly winces in sympathy. He hates long drives. “Basically,” she says. “There’s a motel around, right?”

Octavia huffs and gives him a look, like going to a motel is some sign of horrific disaster. To be fair, it does actually strike him as a red flag. They don’t live in a tourist town. Clarke drove all day to get here and she doesn’t even know where she’s sleeping.

“This is what I’m saying,” says O. “We need to let her stay with us. Her life exploded.”

He raises his eyebrows, and Clarke shrugs, dismissive. “It kind of did. But I can get a motel, seriously–”

“We have a spare room. And the motel is shit, Bell, you know that.” When he doesn’t say anything, she plays the trump card he didn’t know she had. “You’re not going to let your dead boss’s poor, pregnant daughter sleep in a shitty motel, are you?”

He reassesses her through the lens of pregnancy. She’s a little older than O, but not more than a couple years older. She’s alone, and she’s _here_. She used to live here, when she was a kid. It’s probably comforting. As comforting as anything can be.

Clarke squirms a little under his scrutiny. “It’s not–” she starts.

“Did you order the quesadillas?” he finally asks, and enjoys her brief, confused frown.

“Yeah.”

“You should get something else too. Those are an app, they’re not dinner.”

Clarke blinks a few times, and he retreats into the kitchen, mostly because O’s more persuasive than he is. And because he already feels biased, in a stupid, irrational way. If he tries to talk her into staying, it’s probably creepy. But she’s Jake Griffin’s pregnant daughter, so of course he wants her to stay.

Just like he wanted that cat to stay, because she was homeless and hungry and hadn’t been fixed, so it would be irresponsible to put her back on the street.

He can tell himself that it has nothing to do with what he wants at all. But he knows better than to believe it.

*

So, yeah. What’s really amazing is that Clarke doesn’t notice. Clarke seems to believe, without any suspicion, that Bellamy is just one of those guys who takes care of everyone. Which, of course, he is. He has a deserved if not somewhat awkward reputation as the mom friend, the one who will insist on getting a healthy appetizer when they order takeout and who calls ubers for drunk patrons on the house.

But none of his drunk patrons are gorgeous, intelligent women who live in his house and make fun of shitty TV shows with him. He doesn’t wonder what it would feel like to slide his hand into their hair and kiss them, long and sweet. He doesn’t want to find the douchebags who get them pregnant and punch them in the jaw.

He doesn’t find himself thinking about how he probably _could_ take care of a kid, at this point in his life. Not for anyone but her.

So when, a month after Clarke moves in, Miller asks if he can take care of the baby for the night, he of course says yes. Not because it’s a test run, but more because he is fucking _awesome_ at taking care of the baby. It’s not like Clarke hasn’t seen him with Anita before, but he figures his one-on-one caretaker skills are something she’s not familiar with.

And, okay, there is probably something genuinely weird about trying to use his goddaughter to convince Clarke she should stay in Mount Weather, ideally in his house, in a situation where she is dating him, but he thinks it’s somewhat ameliorated by the fact that he’s not being a dick about it. If Clarke really wanted to leave, he wouldn’t object. He’d help her pack and find a new place. He’d cosign a lease for her and make sure she had everything she needed.

Just–he’d rather she didn’t leave.

“Hey!” he hears her call, just after five. “I’m home.”

“Welcome back. We’re babysitting tonight.”

She pauses in toeing off her shoes. “What?”

“Miller has a new client at work, they’re getting dinner. So we’re babysitting.” She does not look thrilled, so he adds, “It’ll be good practice.” Which only makes her grumpier, and he grins. Her general wariness of babies is honestly his favorite thing. He gets why she decided to keep the kid, but he’s pretty sure she’s terrified of being so bad with Anita that she’ll change her mind.

So, really, he’s helping.

“Maybe I want to put off dealing with children for as long as possible before I have my own,” she tells him.

“Yeah, that is not a good way to do it.” He nudges her. “Come on, it’ll be fun. I’ll teach you how to change a diaper. That’s definitely going to come in handy.”

Her sigh is so over-dramatic, and he knows from drama. “You better still play video games,” she mutters, and he resists the urge to put his arm around her.

It’s an urge he should have thought about, before he agreed to take Anita for the night. Because babies always make him want to be closer, and just the sight of Clarke, awkward on the couch while Anita teethes on her braid, is more than he’s really prepared to handle.

But when he sits down too close to her, she doesn’t mention it. So it could be worse.

“See, this is fun,” he informs her, since she doesn’t seem to realize it. “We’re having fun.”

“You’re making me dinner,” she says, dark.

Anita has his finger and his arm is at a weird angle, which is definitely the only reason he shifts closer to Clarke. It’s not at all that she’s warm and smells like fresh flowers. “I’ll make you dinner. I make you dinner whenever I’m home. I don’t know why you want to leave,” he adds, with some unnecessary drama of his own. “We give you room and board and company and–”

She elbows him gently. “You know that normal people don’t just try to adopt pregnant girls, right? This is weird and you’re the only one who does it.”

“Octavia’s doing it too.”

“It’s genetic,” she says, with some despair in her voice, presumably for the entire Blake bloodline. Like loving babies and taking care of people are undesirable traits.

He takes Anita from her in lieu of answering, and she rolls her eyes. He’s pretty sure it’s in a fond way.

“You know it’s not good practice for me if you’re always stealing the baby.”

“Yes it is,” he says, without thinking. “This is exactly what I’m going to do when you have your kid.”

It’s true regardless of whether or not she’s ever interested in him as a romantic partner. As long as she’s around, he’ll babysit for her, he’ll take her kid as often as she lets him. But it still feels too true and not true enough all at once.

“You know,” she says. “It’s possible to obtain your own kid.”

“Kidnapping is illegal. Adoption takes a while and I’m not a good candidate. It’s easier to mooch kids off my friends. I don’t need one of my own, not when everyone I know keeps reproducing.”

She smiles. “You didn’t know me, though.”

“I guess the universe is just great at bringing me babies,” he says, and she laughs and shakes her head.

“That must be it.”

*

The only surprising thing about Octavia calling him on it is how long it takes. He was sort of expecting it within the first week, but she waits _months_.

It’s sort of his own fault, in that he accidentally sees Clarke in that _fucking bikini_ , all perfect breasts and long legs and nervous smile, and Octavia sees him, which–she must have known before. He’s not subtle. But, fuck. That stupid bikini. He’s going to have nightmares about it. Or, well. Whatever the word for awesome dreams you really shouldn’t be having is. There has to be one.

Either way, the bikini thing is enough to make Octavia finally give him a talking to.

“So, you definitely want to marry Clarke, right?”

“Shut up,” he says, resolutely not looking away from the books. He hates the fucking books; he’s not an accounts guy. At all. “Where is she?” he can’t help adding. If Octavia is going to ask him about this, the least she can do is make sure Clarke doesn’t overhear.

“Went for groceries. She did look really cute in her bikini.”

“Cute wasn’t really the word I would have picked,” he mutters, and she cackles. “Seriously, shut up.” He rubs his face. “Are you going to tell me I’m an asshole?”

It’s been worrying him more and more. It’s complicated, keeping a person. He wants to be there for Clarke, to help her and make sure she’s healthy, and he feels like the fact that he also really, really wants to kiss her, and touch her, and, yeah, basically fucking _marry_ her means that he’s too biased to really be involved in this.

He’ll still let her go, if she wants to move out. If she doesn’t want–

God, it can’t be a good idea, right? This is not a normal path to a relationship. Sometimes he wishes she’d just moved to town, that he could have asked her out. Falling in love with a pregnant girl living in his guest room isn’t really the ideal way to start a relationship.

“Of course you’re an asshole,” says O. She frowns. “You think you’re an asshole?”

“I’m getting mixed signals here.”

“Just tell me what’s wrong.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m in love with her,” he admits. He’s never said it before.

“Yeah, and?”

He glares at his sister. “And I’m an asshole.”

“Jesus, you’re feeling guilty for liking a girl now? Come on, Bell. It’s fine. Of course you like her. She’s smart and hot and basically perfect for you. Why would you feel bad?”

“Because her life exploded,” he says. “That was why she moved in with us.” He runs his hand through his hair. “She’s living with us, she’s kind of financially dependent on us, and she’s got no other support system. I’d be a dick to take advantage of that.”

Octavia actually looks at him, hard. It’s rare for his sister to have to comfort him; he tends to be the voice of reason between the two of them. And she’s more prone to crises.

“Okay. Clarke’s an adult. She lives here, but she’s not poor and she’s not staying here because she doesn’t have any other choices. It’s–god,” she huffs. “You’re both idiots.”

“Why her?”

“Because she’s just the same as you. She thinks she should leave, but she doesn’t actually want to, so she’s coming up with reasons to justify staying. You guys just need to fucking have a conversation, seriously. The conversation is _this is a fucked up situation, but I really want to make out_. You’re not the kind of asshole where if shit goes wrong, you’re going to turn her out on the street with no money and no help. If you guys aren’t compatible, you’ll figure it out pretty fast. And if something goes wrong and you have a horrific breakup in five years, that’s going to suck no matter what. But it’s not going to suck because I adopted Clarke off the street and you realized she’s perfect for you.”

“Wow,” he says, but he actually is a little choked up. “That was a lot of support, O.”

“Yeah, I know. But seriously, you’re an idiot. Just tell her how you feel, Bell. I’m pretty sure that’s it. All you need to do.”

And there’s a part of him that thinks it’s true, but there’s also a part of him that thinks it’s too much to just _say_.

But maybe it doesn’t have to be. Maybe he could just ask her on a date. Maybe it could be that easy.

“Or maybe I’ll just die tomorrow when she’s wearing that fucking bikini all day,” he says, and O rolls her eyes.

“Yeah. That sounds so much better.”

*

As ways to deal with his whole situation, turning the office into a nursery maybe isn’t his best option. But he doesn’t really mean it as a grand gesture or anything like that. He’s not trying to talk her into dating him. He just–he wants to make sure she _knows_ that she has a place here, for as long as she wants. And it’s not like he’s doing anything so incredible, when you think about it. He’s just cleaning out a room and repainting it. He hasn’t bought furniture or anything. It’s not like he doesn’t want to get the room spruced up anyway.

But he was still hoping Clarke wouldn’t find out for a while. Because even if he doesn’t mean it as a big gesture, it is one. And it’s eventually going to be a thing.

Unfortunately, it’s a thing basically immediately.

He doesn’t notice her until she says his name, a little unsteady, and he doesn’t let himself look at her. “You shouldn’t be in here, there are fumes. Don’t huff shit when you’re pregnant.”

He can hear her amusement in her voice, and that helps too. “Don’t huff shit when you’re not pregnant, huffing shit is such a bad idea, medically speaking. Pot’s way safer.”

“Thanks, Dr. Substance Abuse.”

“Why are you painting your office pastel green?”

He looks over at her at last. She’s pregnant, but still doesn’t feel _that_ pregnant. And she’s smiling, even if it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

He definitely loves her. Absolutely no question.

“It’s cheerful,” he says. “Probably good for my productivity. The white was oppressive. This will make me think of, uh. Spring. New growth. Potential.”

The eyeroll he gets is well deserved. She’s probably showing a lot of restraint right now. “For all the work you do in here.”

“I’m thinking of writing a novel. I think I’ve got a unique voice. And I’m going to have a lot of spare time, now that I don’t have to do the fucking payroll shit any more.” His eyes dart back to her stomach. “At what point should I stop swearing in front of the baby?”

“When it’s an actual baby.”

He nods. The conversation feels like the most inane thing he’s ever done. “Okay, cool, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Clarke’s not having it. “Bellamy.”

“What?”

“I’m looking at apartments,” she says, and his heart stops for a second. His fingers spasm on the roller, and Clarke comes over, smoothing out the botch of paint with ease.

“Why?” he manages.

“Because it’s one thing for me to stay here, it’s another thing for me _and a baby_ to _live here_.” It sounds like she’s rehearsed this conversation.

“It’s not,” he tells her, voice firm. “When I told you that you could stay, I meant it.” She’s still not looking at him, so he forces it out. Apparently, it’s time. “I want you to stay, Clarke.”

“I can’t. I can’t just–take over your life, Bellamy. And I would, when the baby came. Babies take over. It’d be waking you up and driving you and Octavia crazy and Lincoln when he’s over and if you ever got a girlfriend–” It’s absolutely the wrong moment to laugh, but he can’t help it. It’s the most absurd thing he’s ever heard. “Trust me, Bellamy, a girlfriend would look at this situation and run.”

“I’m not going to get a girlfriend.”

“A boyfriend, then,” she says, not looking at him.

It’s past time.

He puts the roller down and tangles their fingers together. Her hand is warm and soft and perfect, and he wants this so much he can taste it. “Clarke.”

“You can’t,” she says, like her heart is breaking on it. “I know you’re, like–I know you want to look out for me, but–”

“You seem weirdly convinced that I’m _like this_ ,” he says, warm. It’s hard to believe how she’s looking at him; he’s not used to girls looking at him like he can’t be real. “I’m not. I’ll let people crash for a few weeks, but–there’s a limit to what I’ll do for most people There, uh. Apparently there isn’t a limit to what I’ll do for you.”

“This is hormones,” she says, dropping her head onto his shoulder. He thinks he hears a sniffle. “I’m pregnant and I have a lot of issues dealing with emotions.”

He presses his lips against her hair. “You should go out with me.”

“Go out with you?”

“Yeah, you’ll feel better. We’ll date for a while and if it turns out we’re not a good couple, you can still move out. I’m still making a nursery,” he adds. “Just to be safe.”

“You can’t seriously be saying we should date.”

“Why not?”

Her laugh is watery, but he can’t blame her. He’s feeling pretty emotional himself. “We live together, I’m pregnant, this isn’t, just–this is not a normal relationship.”

“It can be. For, you know. Almost three months. The baby will make it weird, but that’s probably long enough to figure out if we can give this a shot.” His voice chokes on the want, and Clarke shifts closer, hugging him, and he hugs back. “I think we can make it work,” he admits.

It still feels like a dream as he finishes up painting, as he washes the paint off his skin and out of his hair, as he assesses himself in the mirror. He’s an attractive guy, he knows that. It just feels like he should be doing–something extra.

But it’s Clarke. And he was trying to tell her it didn’t have to be a big deal. So he puts on his pajamas, like he would any other night, and sits down next to her on the couch, offering a small smile.

“So, if I make you dinner, is that a date?” he asks.

Her own smile is amused. “You make me dinner all the time.”

“And I’ve been trying to date you the whole time, so–”

The kiss is unexpected and a little off-center, but firm, so he tempers it, shifting closer and stroking her cheek, trying to show her how good it could be for her.

For both of them.

It must work, because she’s in his lap in no time, mouth hot and firm, pressing in like she’s starving, and it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him. She wants this too, wants him like he wants her, and they could work. They really could.

“Clarke,” he breathes. “Fuck, Clarke.”

“We’re barely doing anything,” she points out, but she’s fucking grinding against him, pressing her mouth against his neck, and he gives himself roughly five minutes to talk her out of it before his self control snaps.

It actually takes roughly thirty seconds, but in his defense, the woman he loves is horny, desperate, and loves him too.

He thinks he’s allowed to lose control, just this once.

*

He does take her out to dinner, their next night off.

“This isn’t actually necessary,” she tells him, looking amused. “You make me dinner all the time. We don’t have to go out for it to count.”

“Maybe I just want to show you off.”

She rolls her eyes. “If you want a trophy girlfriend, you should probably fine one who isn’t obviously pregnant.”

There’s no self-deprecation in it, just warm amusement, but he takes her hand and squeezes anyway. Mostly because he still hasn’t gotten used to it, this ability to just touch her all the time. Which feels ridiculous, when she’s moved into his bed and curls against him every chance she can get, but–god, it’s fucking _awesome_.

She wants him too. He’s allowed to take a while to get used to it. He’s allowed to think it’s the best thing ever.

“This actually works really well,” he points out. “Visible proof you like me enough to let me knock you up.”

She laughs. “Which is not what happened at all.”

“Not even a little. But I don’t mind if that’s what people think. Beautiful woman likes me enough to reproduce. It’s fucking awesome. They don’t have to know it’s not true.”

Her fingers tighten on his. “It’s kind of true.”

“Kind of true?” he asks, and hopes she can’t hear how hard his heart is beating.

“It’s true pending how much childbirth sucks,” she says. “If it’s too bad, I’m not having any of your kids, no matter how much I love you. We can adopt or something.”

It’s the first time she’s said she loves him, and from the careful way she’s not looking at him, he can tell she knows that too. He didn’t think she didn’t, not really. He wasn’t worried at all.

But it’s still awesome.

“Yeah, let’s see how the first one goes,” he says. “No rush, right?”

Her laugh is a soft huff, and he has to smile too. “Yeah,” she agrees. “No rush.”


	9. optimo dierum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [callmehux](https://callmehux.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: Bellamy is absolutely not going to any holiday parties this year because they're dumb...until Clarke decides to plan a Roman banquet themed shindig. Now he has to get involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to Wikipedia (which I always trust implicitly despite all warnings to the contrary), Catullus referred to Saturnalia as "optimo dierum," or "the best of days." The more you may or may not know, depending on how trustworthy you consider Wikipedia!

Bellamy Blake is a grinch.

At first, Clarke assumed it was just part of his prematurely grumpy old man persona, another thing he does mostly for show. Bellamy is definitely one of those naturally dramatic people who makes a big deal of things just to get a reaction, and complaining about Christmas is right up his alley. She’d be more surprised if he _didn’t_ complain about Christmas.

But it’s not an act. After three years, she’s realized he really, genuinely dislikes Christmas, and he’s using his grumpiness as a cover, so that people won’t realize he’s actually uncomfortable.

If they had a different kind of friendship, she’d let it go. But this is _Bellamy_.

So she pokes him in the side on December third and says, “Why don’t you like Christmas?”

“Because it’s dumb,” he says, without looking at her. “Stop poking me.”

“Define _dumb_.”

“Stupid, idiotic, moronic. Also unable to speak, but that’s not really the definition I was going for. Are you trying to prep me for the easiest vocabulary test ever?”

“I just don’t get it. Why wouldn’t you like Christmas?”

“I don’t like anything,” he says, and she snorts.

“Come on, Bellamy. I know you better than that.”

He pauses, but then he huffs, a tell she recognizes. It usually comes before him telling her the truth. “I do think it’s stupid. Not, you know–it’s a good idea with shitty execution.”

“Christmas.”

“The whole holiday season. Like, all these movies that act like the world is _different_ in December, and–look, if Christmas motivates you to get control of your life, that’s cool. I’m glad something did. But the whole thing isn’t me. If I see something I think you’ll like, I buy it for you. If I want to tell someone I love them, I do it.”

“Just like that?” she asks, curious.

“If I want to, yeah.” He gives her a grin. “It just takes a while to want to.”

“So, you resent Christmas because it gives people a spirit of _carpe diem_ you think they should have all the time?” she asks. “No offense, but that’s irrational and stupid.”

“None taken. I love when you use Latin in casual conversation.” He sighs and drops his head back. “Maybe if I liked any of the Christmas stuff. But it’s either watered-down religion, like, have you read the bible? Angels are creepy. Or it’s a bunch of co-opted pagan traditions, which, whatever, that happens all the time. But evergreen makes me sneeze.”

“Poor Bellamy.”

“It’s not like I’m missing out on much.”

“I don’t know. If anyone could use an excuse to be cheerful for a month, it’s you.”

“Thanks,” he says, dry. “So, satisfied? Are you still going to drag me to Monty and Jasper’s party?”

“You don’t want to come just to hang out with your friends?”

“Like I said, evergreen makes me sneeze. And it’s always a fucking minefield of eggnog and mistletoe. I was going to say I had a work thing. Cover for me?”

He looks hopeful, like having her on his side in his anti-Christmas thing will help, and Clarke’s powerless to say no to that. “Yeah,” she says. “Of course.”

His smile is a rare one, no edge, just affection. “Thanks.”

She’d feel bad, but it’s not like she’s _lying_. She has no intention of making him go to the Christmas party.

But Bellamy is–if anyone deserves to have a nice holiday, it’s Bellamy.

The holiday doesn’t have to be _Christmas_.

*

Bellamy has, occasionally, ranted about which parts of the holiday tradition were co-opted by Christianity as part of the Christmas celebration. Based on a cursory skimming of Wikipedia, she gets the impression that gifts and pointy hats are involved, and also some level of class reversal, and banquets. Which is a pretty great basis for a party, honestly. Roman banquets are probably fun.

“So, this is the year you finally tell Bellamy you’re in love with him?” Raven asks, unimpressed.

“That’s not what’s happening.”

“Sorry, showing, not telling. I guess if he hasn’t noticed yet, this probably won’t do it. But if he’s trying to get away from Christmas shit, you’re really not helping. Teaching some grumpy dude who hates the holidays about the magic of the season is the plot of every Hallmark movie ever.”

“No, a lot of them are about teaching women with jobs that they should have families instead,” Clarke says. “Shut up and help me with these hats.”

*

“I got you a Christmas present,” she tells Bellamy. It’s December tenth, a week before the party, and everyone else already knows about it. Honestly, she’s somewhat amazed their friends have managed to keep their mouths shut, but she’s pretty sure they think it’s _romantic_. Which, okay, it kind of is, if Clarke does say so herself. But that’s kind of a secondary goal.

Bellamy sips his coffee. “Yeah, you usually do. I still like presents. Don’t let my Christmas apathy keep you from buying me shit. But good job shopping early, I guess.”

“Different kind of present.”

“Does it involve nudity?”

“Depends on how well it goes. I know you don’t like Christmas parties, so–”

“I don’t want to know the end of this sentence, do I? I swear to god, if you–”

“Saturnalia.”

He blinks a few times. “What?”

“I’m having a Saturnalia party. Next week. Wikipedia said December seventeenth was a significant date, plus it’s a Saturday, so, you know. God synergy. I’ve already got some stuff done, but I assume you want to critique everything. I did a lot of wikipedia research.”

Bellamy is gaping at her, and she feels herself flush. He regains control of his voice before she can make excuses, “Really?” he asks.

She can’t read his tone. “I know you don’t need a reason to do nice things for people,” she says. “But I _like_ having one. And I like doing nice things for you. And having parties with our friends. So–yeah. Saturnalia. No evergreen, no eggnog. I got a list of traditional Roman banquet meals you can help me cook.”

His expression is like nothing she’s ever seen for a second, awed and fond and far too much for her to handle, but then he gets control of it and smirks instead.

Which is fine; she likes that too.

“So, you got me a present I have to work for?” he asks.

“I got you a present you’ll want to work for. I know what you like.”

His smile goes soft again. “Yeah. You do know that.”

*

The next week is kind of perfect. Raven’s not _wrong_ about her feelings for Bellamy; he’s her best friend, but more than that, he’s the person she spends the most time with, and it’s still never enough. So having him around helping out with cooking, offering historical notes, and making costumes for everyone? It’s awesome. It really _is_ the perfect present for him too, and when he points out that it’ll go more smoothly next year, since they figured this out already, she feels like she’s glowing with pride.

Their friends are less specifically invested, but they put up with the costumes (“They’re not _togae_ , Clarke, they’re–” “Greek, I read the wikipedia article too. Also, togae? Seriously?”) and the activities and are, of course, genuinely enthusiastic about the wine. It’s the best holiday party they’ve had in years, and Clarke has to admit Bellamy might have been right about the others being lacking.

He sticks around to clean up, because of course he does, and she can’t help asking, giddy, “So, that was okay, right? As a holiday party?”

“It was great. I–yeah. It was perfect. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She goes back to cleaning, but he doesn’t, and when she raises her eyebrows, he flushes. “I just–I think you went kind of overboard on not having _any_ modern Christmas stuff.”

She’d like to say her expression doesn’t go smug, but it absolutely does. “Yeah? You totally like sneezing, don’t you. I knew it.”

“No, not sneezing. But some of them are actually Saturnalia traditions too, so–you could have kept them.”

“Sorry you didn’t educate me well enough about–”

He leans in and kisses her, his mouth warm and soft against hers for just a brief second, not nearly enough. But when he pulls back, it’s not too far. “Mistletoe,” he says, watching her, cautious and hopeful. He pulls a sprig out of his pocket, because he _planned this_. “That’s one of the stolen ones. From Greeks and Romans and druids.”

“I thought you didn’t like mistletoe,” she says, sliding her arms around his neck. Just so he won’t think she wants him to move away or anything stupid like that.

“I’m bad at getting you under it,” he says.

“And I thought you didn’t need Christmas as an excuse to tell people–” He catches her mouth again, longer and firm, and she melts into him.

“Okay, I wanted to tell you,” he says, smiling a little. “Just too chickenshit.”

“So Saturnalia inspired you to carpe the diem,” she says, grinning. “So much better than Christmas.”

“So much better,” he agrees. His smile is soft again, impossibly so. “Thanks again.”

This time, she kisses him. “Happy Saturnalia, Bellamy.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “You too.”


	10. Spooky Scary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [academicpunk](http://academicpunk.tumblr.com/). Prompt: Bellarke: Beetlejuice AU.

Bellamy figures the apartment is too good to be true. He knows life is cheaper out of the city, but it shouldn’t be _this much_ cheaper, especially for such a nice neighborhood, with apparently good neighbors and a nice yard. They could get a pet, if they wanted to. He would honestly assume it’s a scam, but–okay, maybe he’s stereotyping, but when he met Clarke Griffin, he just couldn’t imagine she was some scummy slumlord planning to exploit him.

“Blonde white girls can be dicks too, Bell,” Octavia says, like she’s _pissed_ that they got a large, affordable place. Part of him gets it; he remembers being a teenager himself, too full of feelings all the time, bitter that his mom made him watch his baby sister instead of having a life of his own. And now she’s pissed because their mom is dead and they had to move away from all their friends and she doesn’t want her brother to be her dad. He gets it.

It’s just fucking hard for him too, okay? She could cut him a break.

“I’m not saying she’s not a dick. Just she didn’t really seem like a slumlord.”

“If anything, I’d be a slumlady,” Clarke observes, leaning on the U-Haul. She looks amused that Bellamy and Octavia are discussing her, not offended, so there’s that. “It’s kind of gross that slumlord isn’t gender neutral.”

“Yeah, it sucks that exploitation is coded male,” Bellamy says without thinking, but Clarke grins.

“Women can be dicks too. Sorry for interrupting, I just like to be here when people are moving in. Anything I can help with? Stuff to carry?”

“You help everyone move in?” Octavia asks, wary. “You have time for that?”

“I only own one building,” she says. “It’s not like it happens a lot. And I like being here for the neighbors. Let them know someone new is _living_ here.”

Bellamy wouldn’t consider himself overburdened with social graces, but he knows how to not attract attention. When you grow up poor and worried about social services carving your family into small pieces, you know better than to say stupid things to people in authority. But Octavia grew up feeling stifled and rebellious, so she says, “That’s a weird word to emphasize.”

“O,” he says, warning, but of course she won’t let it go. It was probably nothing.

“Did you know this town is the most haunted in New England?” she persists.

Clarke takes it in stride. “I run a hotel too, so, yeah. I’ve seen every brochure for every haunted house in the tri-state area. If you want to go ghost-hunting, I have recommendations.”

O looks begrudgingly impressed, and Bellamy shoots Clarke a grateful smile. He knows that Octavia thinks his going to college was a betrayal. He gets why she thinks it, even though she told him it was okay. It was good for them, but it meant O was alone, and now he’s back and acting like her brother, and she’s not ready to forgive him yet.

He’ll take all the help he can get.

“Have you ever seen a ghost?” O presses.

“That would be telling,” Clarke says. She turns her attention to Bellamy, bright. “So, any boxes I can take?”

It really is a nice place. Much nicer than their old apartment. And Bellamy’s job is good too. O says her school is full of spoiled rich kids, which he unfortunately believes to be true, but it wasn’t like she was fitting in before, particularly. But she understood where she belonged, at least, in her old school. Now she has to figure out a new place. It’s hard, and Bellamy feels for her.

But it’s fucking _weird_.

The first weird thing is the neighbors. Most of them are unremarkable, just quiet people who nod at him when they pass. It’s about the same relationship he had with his previous neighbors, and the level of relationship he wants. Unfortunately, O’s making up for all her non-bonding at school with neighbor bonding, and her neighbor friends are just–yeah. Weird.

Luna and Lincoln seem to be college aged, if not in college, and they are very, very concerned about Bellamy’s fitness as a guardian. Which, fuck, it’s not like Bellamy doesn’t worry about that. Half of his brain power at any given time is running a non-stop mantra of, _you are ruining your sister’s life_ , but that’s kind of his business. He has social workers breathing down his neck already; he doesn’t need overly concerned neighbors asking him about his sister’s health and well-being.

And then there are the noises. He doesn’t know which neighbors produce the sounds, but it’s definitely neighbors. There’s no reason for it _not_ to be neighbors. They live in an apartment building. There are plenty of neighbors around to make weird noises. O claims it’s ghosts, but he’s pretty sure that’s just her being her. They _have_ upstairs neighbors; there’s no reason to assume that the bumps in the night are supernatural.

But it gives O something to do aside from pout and glare, he guesses.

He’s not sure who, exactly, is responsible for the weird literature in the foyer– _A Handbook For the Recently Deceased_ seems like something Clarke would stock at her tourist trap hotel, not in an apartment building–but if no one else is going to mention it, he isn’t either. It’s like playing an extremely weird game of chicken with people he hasn’t met, which is stupid, but better than _losing_ the game.

And the rent is still extremely cheap. It’s worth ignoring some weird, vaguely creepy shit to be able to afford to take care of himself and his sister. Which is what he tells his pushy neighbors, when they ask, and what he tells himself, when eerie moaning wakes him up in the middle of the night. Maybe _sounding like a tortured spirit_ is a kink for some people. He’s not going to judge.

Or he’s going to try to keep his judgement to a minimum.

His favorite neighbor is, of course, Clarke, who lives on the first floor and is, really, pretty awesome. She seems to have realized he’s having some trouble keeping his head above water, so she’ll invite him to watch TV and drink when O’s occupied with other neighbors, and it’s nice.

At least, until she gets involved in the weird neighbor thing.

“So, your sister’s settling in okay, how about you?” she asks, overly casual.

“Could be worse. She was always the social one, anyway.”

“Yeah,” says Clarke. “But–nothing’s bothering you?”

He slants a look at her, but her face is giving nothing away. “I’m twenty-four and I have custody of my teenage sister. Something is always bothering me.”

She snorts, which he appreciates. People who get all serious and sad when he reminds them what his life are like are always difficult to deal with. It’s his life.

“Okay, anything I have influence over. Neighbors? Neighborhood? Laundry? Dishwasher?”

He has to laugh. “Yeah, we’re settling in fine.” He pauses, but he figures he can probably say, “The people in the apartment upstairs have some weird sex.”

“Yeah?”

“That’s my best guess, anyway. I wasn’t going to go upstairs and ask.”

“You could tell them to keep it down.”

“Have you ever tried to tell anyone their sex is too loud and it’s making you feel weird?”

“No, but depending on what you mean by weird and who your neighbors are, that could be the start of a pretty decent porno.”

He chokes on his beer, and Clarke looks delighted, smug as he’s ever seen her, and his heart flips over.

It’s possible he has a small crush on his landlady. It’s not a big deal. Nothing’s going to _happen_. But it’s nice having her to think about, instead of his sister’s rebellion and his weird neighbors and his whole disaster of a life. One night a week or so, he can just be a guy talking to a pretty girl.

“If that happens, I’ll keep you posted.”

“Appreciated.” She worries her lip, going serious again. “So, really, you’re good? No issues?”

“Honestly, it sounds like you’re expecting something here. Do you want me to have a problem?”

“No, no. Of course not. Just–wanted to make sure. It can be hard to get used to a new place.”

“Well,” he says. “If I have any issues, you’ll be the first to know.”

He thinks of it as a fairly meaningless promise, but within a week, he’s got an actual genuine complaint.

Unfortunately, the complaint is that he thinks his apartment is haunted. Which–okay, it probably if not for the undead handbooks and O telling him fucking _afterlife trivia_ , he wouldn’t think the place was haunted. He would come up with a better explanation. Like that he’s losing his mind.

Because if there isn’t a ghost in his apartment, he’s definitely losing his mind. At first, it’s easy to dismiss–a shadow in the corner of his eye, the sense that someone is watching him, things rearranging themselves when he’s not looking.

So it’s honestly a relief when a week into his–whatever the fuck is happening–and the coffee can is full of snakes. Like, really creepy, gross snakes. And, sure, when he drops the can, the snakes are coffee grounds again, but it happens with the eggs too, and that can’t just be _him_. It’s definitely a haunting, and that’s–

Only sort of helpful, honestly. Because, at the end of the day, he’s still either hallucinating or haunted, and haunted is actually harder to deal with.

“You noticed anything weird, O?” he asks his sister, at dinner that night. The problems are limited to when he’s in the apartment, which feels like another good indication that it’s a ghost and not something else. He’s pretty sure.

Octavia, to his surprise, looks _guilty_ , which–what the fuck. “What do you mean?” she asks, defiant.

“My coffee turned into snakes this morning,” he says, mostly to gauge her reaction.

“ _Snakes_? Murphy!”

“Murphy?” he asks. “Jesus Christ, O, do you know the ghost?”

“I know tons of ghosts! So do you!” She gives him a supremely unimpressed look. “Wait, did you seriously not know half the people in this apartment are ghosts? We have _after-life councilors_ , Bell! It’s a thing. You’ve talked to them!”

It’s a lot to take in. “You’re gonna need to start this one from the beginning.”

Which is how he finds out that they’re in some sort of fucking _ghost commune_. The brochures are for the neighbors. Lincoln and Luna are some sort of _guardian angels_ , or something, which–Bellamy’s even more worried about the crush he thought O was developing now, because older than her is bad enough, but older and _dead_ is just way too much.

All of this is way too much.

“And the haunting?” he finally asks. “That’s new, right?”

“Yeah, I, um–I guess I accidentally got a poltergeist. Assigned to my case. He thought Lincoln and Luna weren’t doing enough.”

“Fuck. Do all orphans get guardian angels? Why don’t I have one?” He feels all the blood drain out of his face. “Clarke isn’t mine, is she? She’s–”

“No, she’s alive, don’t worry.” She looks away. “It’s not for everyone. Just–tough cases.”

He rubs his face. “So, I’m such a shitty parent you got a ghost to fuck with me?”

“No, Bell. It’s not like that. It’s–I know how hard you’re working and how much you’re giving up, so–you’re getting help. The poltergeist was a mistake!” she adds, quickly. “You’re not bad at this. I promise.”

“You just have bonus ghost parents.”

“It’s not like that. Just–people I can talk to.”

“You can talk to me,” he says, and instantly regrets it. It’s not _bad_ for Octavia to have more people. “But I’m glad you can talk to them too.” He lets out a breath. “Okay, so. You got me haunted. You know how to get me unhaunted?”

“No idea,” she says. “But–it’s an apartment issue, right?”

“How the fuck should I know?”

“It’s localized. That’s what Lincoln said. So–you should ask the landlady. It’s her job to deal with apartment stuff, right?”

“Yeah, because I really want to tell Clarke you sicced a ghost on me.”

There’s a pause, and then she says, “Don’t act like you weren’t going to tell her. You like her. I _know_ you like her. It’s so obvious.”

“Fine,” he says. “I was going to tell her. But you’re still grounded.”

O rolls her eyes. “Love you too, Bell.”

When he tells her, Clarke laughs for a good five minutes, says, “Murphy?” in an incredulous tone, and promises she’ll take care of it. Which involves her coming to his apartment and blasting Celine Dion until the poltergeist tells her she’s violating the Geneva Convention and leaves to consult a lawyer.

“He’s never going to find a lawyer,” Clarke says, smug. “Underworld bureaucracy is a nightmare.”

“At what point were you going to tell me about the ghosts?” he asks.

“I wanted to be sure it wouldn’t scare you off.”

“I guess you lose more renters that way.”

She ducks her head on a flush. “Yeah, that too, but–I didn’t want to scare _you_ off. I wanted you to stay.”

Maybe there are worse things than Octavia having some new friends she can crash with sometimes. He could probably fit a girlfriend into his schedule.

And the rent is _so_ cheap.

He finds her hand and squeezes. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m not going anywhere.”


	11. Just Say Yes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [powerpointaken](http://powerpointaken.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: Bellamy/Clarke fic based on this whisper story I just saw: "two years ago, I got on one knee and proposed to a stranger on the street as a joke. he leaned down and kissed me. yesterday, he proposed, but this time I was the one who said yes."

Clarke always assumed that she would get married. She also assumed that she would get married based on a proposal, and that, ideally, there would only be one proposal in her life. Because the person who asked her to marry her would be sure of the answer, and that answer would be yes. That’s how it’s supposed to work, right? It seems pretty straightforward.

So she’s not really prepared for two marriage proposals in one day, neither of which she saw coming. The first is, in a word, horrific. But it leads directly to the second, and that’s–well, at the time, it’s primarily very, very helpful. But it’s got growth potential.

Both proposals are in the park, during the city fair. She’d been persuaded to come, against her better judgement, because her ex-boyfriend said he wanted to make up, and it seemed like a fairly safe place to hear him out. Very public, lots of kids, and not at all romantic.

It’s always depressing, when you give someone the benefit of the doubt and they just trample all over it.

“I’m so glad you agreed to come with me, Clarke,” Finn is saying. “I hate how we left things.”

“How you left things,” she says, firm. “You cheated, I dumped you. I feel great about how I left things.”

“I know,” he says. “I screwed up.”

“No, you didn’t. That’s not a strong enough term for what you did.”

“I made one mistake.”

“Oh,” she says, letting her voice go sickly sweet. “Trust me, Finn. This is a nice, family place. You don’t want me to start counting how many mistakes you made.”

“I know,” he says, in spite of overwhelming evidence to the contrary. “But I’m going to start making it up to you right now.”

“Awesome,” she says, looking around. “I really want funnel cake. I think there’s–”

“Clarke Griffin,” he says, and to her horror when she looks back at him, he’s _down on one knee_. “I know we’ve had our ups and downs–”

“Ups and downs,” she repeats, numb. She refused to even take his calls for three months, and he’s _proposing_. There isn’t enough time or breath for every mistake Finn Collins has made, and it’s a losing battle. He doesn’t understand.

“I believe we can make this work. I want to make it work, Clarke. No relationship is perfect–” She’s not sure whether to classify the sound she makes as a laugh or a sob, but it’s sort of like trying to figure out what caused the fire in your house while you’re trying to escape; sure, it’s academically interesting, and worth thinking about later, but there are more pressing things to deal with. “But I want to be imperfect with you.”

It would be bad enough all by itself, but that’s when people start _cheering_. Clarke glances around, considering. It’s not like she’s going to marry Finn. There’s no way. But people are watching and laughing. Someone is _filming them_. If she says yes, she can always take it back, but she’s _saying yes_. And if she says no, this crowd is going to make the next few minutes extremely uncomfortable.

It is a major failing of the world that Clarke won’t get cheered on if she kicks him in the balls.

“Clarke!” says someone. “Don’t marry him!”

She looks around, confused, and a guy breaks through the crowd. He’s about Finn’s height, with a mess of black hair and a tight black t-shirt that shows off exactly how much _bigger_ is is than Finn.

He also has freckles, once he’s close enough for her to see, and he gives her this small, twitching smile that she’s pretty sure means _just go with it_.

“Don’t marry him,” says the stranger, pitching his voice low and pleading. “I know you guys have–history. But he’s all wrong for you. He’s not going to make you happy. Not like I would.”

She has no idea what her expression looks like as this new guy gets down on one knee, not breaking eye contact. _Trust me_ , he’s saying, and Clarke does. The situation is ridiculous and unbelievable, but it’s a good show, and Clarke is now in some sort of Bachelorette situation, choosing between two suitors.

That’s an even _better_ show.

“Will you marry me?” asks the stranger, and Clarke mouths _I owe you_ , before she tugs him up, throws her arms around his neck, and kisses him.

She can hear the cheer of the crowd, but it fades away quickly, because the guy’s hand slides into her hair, and she’s sure the kiss looks good, but it feels good too.

Some part of her brain is still paying attention, so she counts to ten and then pulls back and gives him her best grin. “Did I say yes?” she asks, and he laughs.

“It was implied.” He wets his lips, smiles. “Nice to hear, though.”

A few people come over to congratulate them, and Clarke leans into the stranger’s side, letting him put his arm around her. Finn’s looking confused, but she doubts he wants to make _this_ scene. And, weird as it is, it’s nice to feel like _someone_ has her back.

He’s still there when the crowd disperses, and the stranger leans down to murmur, “Stay or go?”

“Me or you?” she asks.

“All of the above.”

“Would you stay?”

“Yeah, of course.” He squeezes her shoulder, all warm support, and she really, really owes him.

Maybe he’ll let her buy him dinner.

“Who is this?” he asks. “Clarke, what–”

“Bellamy,” says the guy, and offers his hand.

Finn ignores him. “You didn’t tell me you were seeing someone.”

“You didn’t tell me you were going to propose three months after I dumped you. I don’t owe you anything, Finn. That was shitty, and we’re over. I thought we could be friends, but–no. I wasn’t waiting for a grand gesture. I was waiting for you to grow up and figure out what you did wrong. And I’m done waiting. I’m blocking your number. I don’t want to see you ever again.” She glances at Bellamy. It’s annoying, that she needs some sort of fucking _bodyguard_. But it’s nice that she has one. “You want funnel cake?”

He laughs, surprised. “I would love some funnel cake, yeah.”

She pays for the funnel cake, to thank him, and he’s the one who offers to buy her dinner.

“Since I didn’t have a ring for you,” he adds, with a teasing smile, and she laughs.

“Yeah, you’re right. It’s the least you can do.”

So, yeah, as proposal experiences go, it’s pretty mixed. The Finn part was awful, and the only good part of the Bellamy part was, well, Bellamy. Who recognized a situation where Clarke was facing enormous stupid pressure and stepped in in the best way he could think of at the time. And who is, honestly, great. It’s a good memory entirely because of what came after.

Which is why she wants to do her third proposal right. And she’s heard that, if you want something done right, you should do it yourself.

The real problem is that Bellamy doesn’t care much about romance. Not that he’s not _romantic_ , of course. It’s just the pragmatic kind of romance, where he’ll give her an umbrella two days after she showed up to a date soaking wet. Caring and consideration are great things in a relationship, but it’s hard to build a big gesture around them. And she doesn’t _have_ to do anything big. It’s not like she wants to corner him in public. But–his first proposal meant so much to her, and she doesn’t think she’s ever adequately told him that. She doesn’t love him because he helped out a stranger, just because he saw she was uncomfortable. But she’ll love forever that he did it, and she’d love it even if they hadn’t ended up together.

But they did, and she wants to marry him, and she wants it to be–good. As a proposal. Which she’d never really thought about. She had thought about being the one to do the proposing–mostly when she was dating girls, admittedly, but it’s not like Bellamy cares about gender roles–but it’s never been more than just getting down on one knee with a ring.

Which Bellamy would be totally fine with. Clarke could ask if he wanted to go to the courthouse tomorrow and get a marriage certificate, and he’d be happy. Thrilled, even.

Still, when he says Octavia has a booth at the fair, almost exactly two years after they first met there, it feels like a sign. And the sign is, at base, this is where to do it, and there’s no wrong way.

So she buys him a funnel cake and says, “So, do you want me to do it now?”

He has powdered sugar on his nose. “Do what?”

“Propose. There’s some sentimental value here, but public proposals are really awkward. Even if mine turned out okay.”

He side-eyes her. “You’re going to propose?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh.”

“Huh?”

“I thought we were already engaged. It’s not like you ever took your yes back. We’ve been engaged since before we were dating. And I thought my first one was pretty awesome.”

“You think I can’t do better?” she asks.

He gestures to the fair, an invitation. “Go ahead.”

Between the two of them, Bellamy is the one who’s good at speeches. He’s the one who knows how to command a crowd with charisma; Clarke tends to do it with logic and simple emotional entreaties. Sometimes, those emotional entreaties aren’t entirely _honest_ , but still. Clarke’s not great with the kind of drama that Bellamy excels at.

So she puts his funnel cake on a picnic table, takes both his hands in hers, and says, “Hey, I love you. Will you marry me?”

He laughs, leans down and kisses her. “Wow, you’re right. That was a great proposal. Blew mine out of the water.”

“I’d settle for a tie.” She bumps her nose against his jaw. “Really. I love you so much.”

“I love you too. I’ve got a ring for you at home. I was just waiting for the right time.” His grin is huge. “Did I say yes?”

She laughs. “It was implied.”


	12. I Wreck It (You Fixed It!)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [clarityandwit](http://clarityandwit.tumblr.com)! Prompt: I keep buying stuff that keeps on breaking?? But it's fine because you work at customer service and I can see you every day

Clarke is, not to put too fine a point on it, technologically impaired.

It wasn’t a huge problem, at one point in her life. That point was before Raven moved across the country, when she could just ask her to solve every electronic problem she ever had. Which she still _tries_ to do, but Raven’s talents can only do so much, long-distance.

And that’s how she ends up at Hephaestus Hardware.

She’s seen the place before; it’s on her way to work, and she’s never dismissed it, but she also never felt much need for it. Even if her technology was failing her, she could usually make it work, between Raven, her coworkers, and occasionally googling and praying.

But her new tablet is fucking up, she has a deadline, and she’s on the verge of tears. She’ll take whatever help she can get.

When she goes in, there’s a guy behind the counter, doing something on an iPad. His curly hair is falling in his eyes, and he’s biting his lip a little, concentrating.

She should have come in sooner, apparently.

The sound of the door jolts his attention up, and his glasses slip down his nose. He pushes them up and offers her a smile. “Hi, welcome to Hephaestus Hardware. How can I help you?”

“I’m cursed,” she says.

He considers this. “Yeah, uh, I can try to get you a referral, but that’s not really our area of expertise. Curse-breaking is, I don’t know, one of those holistic medical places? Maybe that weird place down the street that does ear candling.”

“I wouldn’t trust them to keep me from getting cursed,” Clarke says. “Or to deal with a curse I already had.”

“Fair enough. Thanks for thinking of us, I guess.” He regards her. “Seriously, what’s the problem?”

“I just got a new wacom tablet and it’s already broken. That’s my curse. I touch technology and it just breaks.”

“I don’t know, that could be one of those blessings in disguise. Maybe it’s a _Good Omens_ thing, and your technological curse will save the world.” She cocks her head, confused, and he flushes. “Uh, it’s a book. Never mind. Do you have the tablet? I can take a look.”

Clarke pulls the tablet out of her bag, and the guy turns it over, inspecting it with a slight frown.

“It’s not charging right,” she tells him. “I called my best friend, and she said she’s busy now and can’t actually deal with every one of my tech problems. But in a nice way.”

“Well, we can definitely take a look,” he says. “It’s, uh–if you leave your name and number, I can call you back tomorrow and we’ll give you an estimate for when we can have it fixed and how much it’ll cost.”

“Is there any way you can look tonight? Just so I have an idea how long it’s going to be? Sorry, it’s just–I’ve got a big project for work, and if it’s going to set me back on my deadline, I need to figure out another plan.”

He glances around. “Yeah, uh–let me just check. Miller might have time tonight. Gimme a sec.”

Clarke looks around while he’s in the back. The weirdest thing is that it is, in part, a hardware store, in the traditional sense. They sell some electronics, but it’s also a lot of housewares and tools, which she hadn’t expected, even if she should have. _Hardware_ doesn’t really scream computers.

But they seem good.

The guy comes back out, minus her tablet. “We should be able to have it done tomorrow by five? Fifty bucks on pickup. That sound okay?”

“Thank you, you’re a lifesaver,” Clarke says with genuine feeling, and the guy rubs the back of his neck.

“Just doing my job. If you leave your name and number, we can give you a call if it’s done early.”

“Great,” Clarke says. She gives him her information, thanks him again, and texts Raven to tell her that she figured out her own tech problems.

_So, paying someone else to do it?_ Raven asks, and Clarke texts, _Shut up_.

*

Over the next few weeks, Clarke becomes a regular at Hephaestus Hardware. It’s mostly because she is, like she said, actually legitimately cursed, and is better at breaking shit than anyone else she has ever met. It is basically a genuine and completely useless superpower.

But, it’s not like having to go to the hardware store is the _worst_ thing. Because Bellamy is there.

She gets to know him slowly. He’s kind of adorably hesitant about giving her personal information, not like he doesn’t want her to know, but like he thinks she doesn’t care. Which is really not true. Not only is he cute, he’s funny and smart and interesting, and he has a lot of opinions about history and politics and pop culture, all of which she wants to find out.

Clarke starts hanging out behind the desk with him while his friend in the back tries to fix whatever disaster has happened to her phone or her iPad or her tablet, and it’s honestly the highlight of her day, most days. It’s good that she’s so bad with her electronics, because otherwise, she’d have to come up with an excuse to see him, and that would be tough. She just doesn’t really need much, by way of hardware.

“You know you’ve broken more gadgets than I even own, right?” he observes, when she comes in with her fitbit. “I don’t even know what this is. What is it?”

“It’s a fitbit. It counts my steps. Can you fix it?”

“Probably. Let me go check.” He pauses. “Actually, no, I can’t let this go. Why do you count your steps? What does it tell you? Why do you need to know how many steps you’ve taken?”

“I set daily goals, so I know if I’m not active enough. It keeps me from just lying on my couch all the time.”

“You need a special watch to do that?” he asks. “I just go jogging every morning.”

“Not all of us are naturally athletic and hot.” His head whips around hard, and she refuses to be embarrassed. “Sorry, did you not know you’re hot?”

“I didn’t know I was naturally athletic,” he says. “I’ll see what we can do with your exercise watch.”

“For someone who does this professionally, you’re kind of a luddite.”

“For someone who needs this much technology, you’re kind of shitty with it.”

She laughs. “Yeah, okay, fair enough. Please have your magic wizard friend save my exercise watch.”

He rolls his eyes. “If anyone tries to buy anything, don’t touch the register. I don’t want to have to replace it,” he says, and Clarke swats him as he passes.

*

It’s another two weeks later when she finds out she’s been–wrong. About some things.

Her laptop had a major meltdown, and even though it’s Saturday and she doesn’t really _need it_ , she packs up and heads to Bellamy’s to beg for his help.

There’s someone different behind the desk, a pretty girl with straight brown hair. She looks profoundly bored, and unlike Bellamy, she doesn’t greet Clarke when she comes in, just gives her a nod and goes back to looking at her phone.

When Clarke actually comes up to the counter, she looks vaguely alarmed, but she manages, “Hi, can I help you?”

“Yeah, there’s something wrong with my laptop.”

She’s expecting the girl to tell her that Miller will take a look whenever he’s in, but the girl looks like she’s expecting Clarke to say more. “And?” she finally prompts.

“I needed to get it fixed?”

“Oh, uh–we’re not really that kind of hardware store. There’s a tech repair store across town, I’m pretty sure? I can find the number.”

“What do you mean you’re not that kind of store?” Clarke asks.

“We don’t do repairs.”

Clarke blinks a few times, trying to understand the statement. “Sorry, I–I get repairs done here all the time. I got one done two days ago.”

“Really?”

“You can–is Bellamy here? Does he not work today? You can ask him.”

“That sounds like a great idea,” says the girl. She pushes the back door open and leans her head in. “Bell! I’m pretty sure that hot blonde you like is here!” She twists around back to Clarke. “Nice to finally meet you. I’m going to let him handle this one.”

Bellamy comes out a few seconds later, smile sheepish. “Hi, Clarke.”

“Hi.”

“Is it bad if I was kind of hoping it wasn’t you?”

“I don’t know. I need more information about that hot blonde you like.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, uh, that’s definitely you. Sorry.”

“Then why didn’t you want it to be me?”

“Because my sister just told you I liked you. I thought that stopped happening once she got out of middle school.”

“That was your sister?”

“Yeah. She helps out on weekends sometimes.”

“And you guys don’t repair electronics.”

“Uh, yeah, I mean–Miller’s boyfriend is pretty good with that stuff, so I just asked if he’d help out. You seemed pretty desperate.” He glares, like this is her fault, and it’s honestly incredibly endearing. “We did charge you.”

“Yeah, that makes it not weird at all.” She smiles at him. “You could have just told me. I could get my electronic repairs done somewhere else.”

“Yeah, but I wanted you to keep coming back.”

She leans across the counter and kisses him. “I was going to have to start breaking my stuff on purpose soon. There’s got to be a better way to see each other.”

He’s grinning. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure we can think of something.”

*

“I thought this would stop once Bellamy asked you out,” Monty says, squinting at her phone. “I assumed it was just some weird flirting thing.”

“No, I’m just talented.”

He shakes his head. “You weren’t kidding. You really are cursed.”

She glances over at Bellamy, playing video games with Miller and talking non-stop shit with a perfect smirk on his face, and can’t help her own smile. “I don’t know,” she tells him. “I’m starting to think it’s not so bad.”


	13. Canonverse - a socket-set to dismantle this morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [nfinitegladness](http://nfinitegladness.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: A post-season 3 piece that focuses on Bellamy and Raven's friendship, and is also tangentially about how Bellamy is deeply in love with Clarke.

Amends are a tricky thing.

For Bellamy, he doesn’t quite know how to go forward with his own redemption. Sometimes, he’ll think he’s done enough. If anyone wanted to do the math, he thinks they’d find he’s saved more people than he’s killed. But it’s not really about that. It’s about the people who won’t forgive him, or who can’t. You can’t make amends to the dead, not really. And just because they shut down the reactors, it doesn’t cancel out the other blood on his hands. It can’t be canceled. There is no system of equivalent exchange for this.

He doesn’t have anything clear to do now, nothing beyond his regular duties, so he asks Raven about rovers.

“What about them?” she asks. She’s halfway under one, her attention more on it than him. Not that he blames her.

“I want to learn how they work.”

She slides out from under the machine, fixing him with a hard look. Raven’s not as good at making him feel transparent as Clarke is, but she’s still really fucking good at it. There’s no shame in not being the world champion.

“What, you don’t have enough to do?” she asks, and it’s almost teasing, but not quite.

They all know how hard idle moments can be.

“I could use a hobby,” he says. “I went professional arguing with the council. Besides, I’m tired of not having a clue how to deal with things that go wrong. If I was out alone in the field–”

“You could have just said yes,” she says, with a roll of her eyes. “Get under here. We’ll get you started with the basics.”

*

Bellamy’s guilt with Raven is straightforward. It’s less messy than how he feels about Clarke or–about anyone else. They let each other down after Gina died, but it was mutual. They were mourning separately, when they should have been mourning together. She missed Pike and he missed ALIE, and they both fucked up. They could have helped each other, and they didn’t.

There’s an easy solution to that, though: they just have to have each other’s backs, now.

He doesn’t mention this to Raven, not in so many words, because that’s never really been what he and Raven are about, the whole _let’s sit down and really talk about how we feel_ thing. They tend to go with affectionate ribbing and, that one time, sex. But right now, they’re in good shape with each other.

Right now, they tend to just be quiet together, the nice kind of quiet where they work together on the rovers or sit at the same table in the mess and talk to other people, but they’re still _together_. And that means nothing bad can be happening to her, not that he doesn’t know about. He hears Clarke ask her about the leg, or Monty ask her about the sewage system, and he knows she has plenty of people checking in.

What they can do for each other is just exist, side-by-side, and that’s easy.

“Hey, need your help with something,” she says, and then pauses when she sees he was talking to Clarke. “Nothing urgent.”

Clarke flashes a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “It’s fine. This isn’t important either.”

“Wow, you guys are really making me feel valued,” he says, and Raven snorts.

“You can come too, Clarke,” she says. “Another pair of hands wouldn’t hurt.”

“No, it’s fine, I don’t want to–”

“Come,” says Raven, firm, and Clarke glances at him, like he’s ever going to say no to spending more time with her.

“If she says she needs help, she can probably use all the help she can get,” he points out.

Clarke’s mouth twitches up, but she still looks–tired, somehow.

Not that they aren’t all tired, these days.

“Sure,” she says. “I can come.”

Raven takes them out to the garage, which is what they’ve taken to calling her part of the new settlement. Its official name is New Arkadia, but most of the delinquents just call it Nark, because they’re sick of all this Ark worship. Bellamy’s all for it, but he does _like_ the place. It feels more like home than Arkadia ever did.

It makes him feel guilty sometimes.

“Okay, so here’s the deal,” says Raven, pulling something off the shelf. “I think we could get movies going.”

Bellamy and Clarke exchange a look. “Movies?” he asks.

“Yeah, remember we found those DVDs in that bunker a few months back? Jasper and Monty found a player last week. If we can figure out how to fix it up and make it work, we can have movies. Clarke, I figure you can find something to project them on?”

Whatever weirdness she was feeling passes, and her face is all alight with excitement. “Yeah, of course. You really think you can play them?”

“If Bellamy’s learned anything about electronics, yeah.”

“Shit, we’re not getting any DVDs,” he says, and they both laugh.

But he’s actually not bad with this stuff, which is a surprise. He’s not gifted like Raven is, isn’t going to figure out solutions to all Nark’s problems, but he likes the actual work of it. It reminds him of sewing, in a strange way, the familiar comfort of having something in his hands that he can fix, all on his own.

“You really like this,” Clarke says, watching him with a soft look in her eyes. She doesn’t spend that much time in the garage, but she stops by, from time to time, and talks to them. Bellamy’s never more relaxed than when all three of them are there.

“Yeah, I really do.”

“Good, I’m glad. You–I’m glad you found something just for you.”

“It’s not just for me,” he protests. “It’s helping.”

“Yeah, but–the way I have drawing.”

That makes sense, and he smiles. “Yeah, it’s good.”

*

“What are you doing about Clarke?”

“Nothing,” he says. He’s working on the DVD player, Raven’s working on the hydration system for the new greenhouse. The DVD player is _his_. “What am I supposed to be doing?”

“She thinks you want to fuck me.”

It hadn’t occurred to him, which makes him feel kind of guilty. It’s not an unreasonable assumption, he just hasn’t been thinking about anything like that. Not with anyone.

“Oh.”

“I told her it’s not like that, but you might want to too. Just so you can work on eventually fucking her.”

“It’s not like that either,” he says, too fast.

“Sure it’s not.” She pauses, cocks her head. “This isn’t some dumbass guilt thing, is it?”

“My whole life is basically a dumbass guilt thing,” he points out, and she does him the favor of laughing.

“Yeah, it is. But–Gina.”

They haven’t talked about her before, and he doesn’t know how to do it now. Gina was–Gina was all the things he thought he should want on Earth, and he adored her for it. But he never got around to feeling like he was any good for her.

“Look, whatever–that stuff that ALIE said,” Raven says. “You never let her down, okay?” He scoffs, and Raven actually gets out from under the jeep, bumps her shoulder against his, hard. “You made the right call. At Mount Weather. Just because it didn’t go right doesn’t make you wrong. If you’d stayed, you’d probably be dead too. And we’re all glad you’re not.”

“Not everyone.”

“You think Pike would have been better without you?” she asks. “You didn’t make him how he was. He made you how you were, and then you snapped out of it. So if you’re doing some bullshit thing where you think you don’t deserve nice things, stop right the fuck now.”

He actually laughs. “Wow. I’ve never gotten a pep talk from you before.”

“Tell Clarke we’re not dating. I don’t want rumors starting about us being in another shitty thing where we both like the same guy.”

“I’ll tell her,” he says. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Boyfriend? Girlfriend? Pep talk? What do you need? How can I help?”

“I need entertainment. Get that thing fixed already.” But her expression softens. “I’ve got some admirers. But I’m not ready to settle down yet.”

“Make them work for it, yeah.”

“I made it way too easy for you, yeah.”

He laughs. “Yeah, that’s us,” he agrees. “Easy.”

*

Octavia shows up the same day he finishes repairs on the DVD player, because of course that’s how it would have to happen. It’s not her arrival that surprises him, or even the timing; she said she’d stop by in a couple months, to trade and give news, but that doesn’t make it any better. The news of her is still like something shoved into the cavity under his heart, sudden and jagged.

Or, really, it’s more like someone jostled the shrapnel in his chest, because it’s not like the pain ever goes away. It’s the difference between the tide and the tsunami.

Miller brings the news, and he tells Clarke, not Bellamy. Even though Bellamy is right there.

“Scouting party saw Octavia. My dad brought her in, she’s getting water for her horse.” His eyes finally flick to Bellamy. “She says she just has news and some stuff to trade. Doesn’t need an official meeting or anything.”

Clarke’s eyes flash. “She doesn’t? I have some–”

“Clarke,” he says. “She doesn’t report to us. If she wants to chat, she can chat with someone else. Monty and Jasper, probably.”

“I’ll go with them,” Miller says, and glances between them.

“Tell her we’re watching a movie tonight,” Bellamy tells him. “If she wants to come.”

Clarke worries her lip, but she waits until Miller’s gone to speak. “You’re not going to see her?”

“Depends on if she stays for the movie,” he says. But–this is Clarke. “I don’t know what to say. She left. She made it pretty clear she was leaving _me_. If she wants to see me, I’m not hard to find.”

“No, you’re not. You’re going to go see Raven?”

There’s not really a good, casual way to say you aren’t in love with someone. Clarke’s never asked about Raven, not in a direct enough way he can just say that there’s nothing going on with himself and Raven except friendship and atonement.

“I assume you’re going to go yell at my sister,” he says, making his voice light. “And I don’t want to see her. So if I stay with you, that’s not going to work out.”

“I’ll go with you, if you want,” she says. “I just thought–Raven would help more.”

He has to smile. Raven might be _right_ ; Clarke might really be jealous.

That would be nice.

“I want to make sure everything is set for tonight,” he says. “You want to have dinner? Before the movie.”

Her smile is fond and amused. “I usually eat, yes.”

“I meant with me.” He swallows, doesn’t let himself look away from her. “Dinner and a movie, right? That’s traditional. Haven’t been able to do it for a while, but it’s probably fun. For a date.”

“With me,” Clarke says.

“Raven says your misguided belief that I’m interested in her is interfering with her sex life, so, yeah. With you.” He leans down, and when she doesn’t move away, he presses his mouth against hers. Just for a second. “I’m going to go hang out with Raven. Don’t kill my sister, okay?”

“I wasn’t going to kill her,” she says. She’s smiling like the sun. “See you tonight, Bellamy.”

“Can’t wait,” he says, and goes to the garage.

Raven’s under the rover, like she always is, and he just sits down on the floor next to her. All his electronics are fine. But this has become his refuge, too. This is the place he most likes to be, when he doesn’t have other duties. It’s relaxing.

“You okay?” Raven asks, without leaving the car. “Heard you had a visitor.”

“She’s not visiting me,” he says. “Clarke’s going to yell at her, and Monty and Jasper are going to tell her she can come to the movie if she wants. So–it’s up to her. Everyone knows where to find me.”

“That’s why Clarke’s jealous,” she says. “Everyone’s supposed to find you with her.”

“I think that’s still the first guess.” He lies down on the cool floor, closing his eyes. “She’s my date tonight. So you can stop blaming your lack of love life on me. I did my part.”

“Good job. I’ll go back to blaming myself.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was hoping.” He worries his lip. “You’re happy, right? I know–fuck, it’s hard. But you’re happy?”

“Getting there,” she says. “Closer every day.”

“Yeah. That sounds about right.”

The first movie is some comedy about lives so foreign to him that Bellamy can’t believe they ever existed on this same planet. People who work in cities, who walk through streets crowded with cars and people, who eat at restaurants and never worry about their next meal or their own pasts.

It’s a surreal thing to watch, for two hours, this glimpse back into a world he’ll never know. But Clarke is on one side of him, Raven on the other. Miller’s in front, and Octavia caught his eye when they sat down, and her smile made him feel more happy than sad.

This is the world he’s living in. And, like Raven said, it’s getting better every day.


	14. You Can Take a Piece of Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [megatr0nprime](http://megatr0nprime.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: Bellarke, "I'm driving somewhere and you cut me off and it's the last straw because I've had such a shitty day so I'm actually going to get out of my car at the next light to ream you a new one but oh fuck you're gorgeous and super apologetic, now what do I do?"

In general, Bellamy thinks of himself as a fairly controlled person. He can and does lose his temper, on occasion, but the occasions are rare and usually justified. Back in high school and college, he got in some impressive screaming matches, but adulthood has tempered him, and now he tends to wield passion as a tool, instead of letting it control him.

But, fuck, he’s having _such_ a shitty day.

It was a shitty week already. Work has been stressful, he and Octavia are fighting again, and all he wants to do is go home, get a beer, order a pizza, and watch Netflix until he passes out. The ideal Friday, really.

Unfortunately, he has to get through his commute first, and his commute is a minefield of rage. Just getting out of the office parking lot is bad enough, because everyone else is convinced that if they follow posted signage, it will take longer than honking and yelling.

He can’t wait for it to be warm again, when he can ride his bike. Cars are the fucking worst.

Once he’s out of the parking lot, he’s still got traffic lights, construction, and assholes who don’t know how to use their turn signals, all of which build to his least favorite thing: the train tracks. His goal, every Friday, is to get past the tracks before the 6:13 cargo train comes, because if he doesn’t, he will be stuck there for almost ten minutes, waiting for the stupid fucking thing to pass.

Most Fridays, he makes it, but it’s the last stupid, stressful part of his work week, and even when he’s not in a foul mood, he hates it.

So, of course, he gets cut off by some asshole in a rental car just before the tracks, and his only consolation is that they’re going too slowly to beat it either, so both of them get stuck at the tracks, not just him.

As consolations go, it’s pretty shitty.

The radio kicks up some overly cheerful pop song he hates, right on cue, and he’s out of the car and storming down the road before he’s quite realized what’s happening.

This is when he snaps, apparently. He knew it was coming, the end of his patience, but the part of him that’s watching himself, thinking about what he’s doing, realizes even now that this is not a good idea.

It becomes an even worse idea when the person in the car rolls down the window and says, “Oh my god, I am so sorry.”

He would feel better if it was a guy driving, which is something to probably examine in himself. Although, honestly, a brown guy threatening a white woman is maybe going to go incredibly wrong for him, so it’s this perfectly horrifying combination of guilty benevolent sexism and terror of racial profiling.

Worst day ever. She’s gorgeous too, and looks genuinely apologetic. At least for a minute, until she squints and asks, “Bellamy?”

He blinks and looks back at her, letting her face rearrange itself from _hot blonde he’s pissed at_ to _hot blonde who knows his name_ , and when it clicks after a few seconds, he feels himself flush.

“Clarke,” he says.

Her grin is wry. “Do you think we’re ever going to have a conversation that doesn’t involve screaming at each other?”

“Depends on how many more conversations we have,” he says, returning her smile.

Bellamy didn’t know Clarke Griffin that well in college. Mostly, they fought. They were both on the honor committee when he was a senior and she was a freshman, and they managed to argue about every case they saw. The most remarkable thing about it, both at the time and in retrospect, was how the arguments never actually made him think less of her. Or, not once he got used to her, not once he realized she was smart and passionate and just as dedicated to doing what was right as he was.

He liked her, for all they had actual screaming fights on a weekly basis.

“I’m really sorry about cutting you off,” she says. “If it makes you feel better, I’m going to miss my flight.”

“Shit, I’m sorry. I, uh–what are you doing in town? When are you going to be able to get out?”

Clarke laughs. “I’m not sure this is really the right place for this conversation. The train’s going to pass and whoever’s behind you is going to be pissed. But–I’m stuck anyway. Can I buy you a drink or something?”

“You’re not going to try to fly out tonight?” he asks.

“No, I’m going to celebrate.” She grins. “I got hired for a new job, I can afford to rebook my flight.”

“Oh, awesome. Congratulations. Does that mean I should be buying you a drink?”

She smiles again, looking so genuinely pleased that he can feel all the annoyance draining out of him. He’s never had a drink with Clarke before–they didn’t go to the same parties in college, given the age difference–but suddenly, that sounds even better than being alone on his couch.

“We can buy each other drinks. Do you have a bar you like?”

He gives her the name of the place where Gina works, and follows her there once the train is gone. When he gets out of his own car, she surprises him with a hug, but it’s not like it’s a _bad_ surprise. It’s hard to object to having his arms full of pretty girl.

“Hi!” she says. “Sorry, was that weird?”

“Totally.” He smiles. “Hi. Good to see you. Fuck you for cutting me off.”

“I deserve that, yeah. I felt really bad even before you decided to come yell at me. I was panicking about the airport and trying to get my phone to reroute me. But there’s not really a good way to tell someone you’re sorry for cutting them off.”

“This one’s fine with me.” He holds the bar door open for her. “What’s the job?”

“Huh?”

“You said you got a new job. What is it?”

“Oh. I’m going to be teaching art at the community college in the fall. I’m really excited.”

“You should be. That’s awesome. I’m definitely buying your first drink.”

She laughs. “And I’m buying yours, so we might as well just pay for our own stuff.”

“Fine. I’m paying for nachos.”

“They have nachos?” she asks, perking up. “Awesome. I’ll get mozzarella sticks.”

Gina comes to take their order, even though she’s a bartender, not a waitress, and gives him a big smile. “Hi, Bellamy. Hi, Bellamy’s cute friend. Do you have a date? You never have dates. You should have warned me, I would have decorated the table for you.”

“I can’t believe I couldn’t think of another bar,” he says, but Clarke is looking amused, so he can’t be upset. “Gina, this is Clarke. We went to college together. Clarke, this is my ex-girlfriend, Gina. I set her up with her new girlfriend, so she’s paying me back by being an asshole.”

“Hey, that’s not fair. I was already an asshole to you.”

“Do you know anyone who doesn’t make fun of you?” Clarke asks, eyes sparkling, and he feels his own smile getting way too large. He’s never going to hear the end of this one.

“Not if I can help it.”

Gina takes their order and leaves with a significant look at Bellamy, and he settles in, asking Clarke about where she’s living now–at home, with her mother, between grad school and real life–and what she’s been doing since he graduated–college, grad school, existential panic. He’s not planning to vent about his own life, primarily because _still working in a temp-to-perm job because I graduated at a bad time_ doesn’t feel like the right way to impress her, to say nothing of _insecure about my sister moving away_. But there’s something about her open expression and slightly tired smile that makes it easy to just start talking, and by the time he’s done, he really does feel better.

And she’s still pretty and still smiling at him. That helps too.

“So, what’s your plan for the rest of the night?” he asks her, once they’ve finished their appetizers. “You need to rebook your flight, right?”

“Yeah. Call the airline, get on a flight tomorrow, find a hotel for tonight, I guess. Get dinner at some point.”

There’s something about the way she bites her lip that makes him feel _sure_. He hasn’t felt sure in a while, not about this. He’s been single since he and Gina broke up, and he basically stumbled into that, and then stumbled out of it.

Clarke feels like possibility, bright and real and exciting, but tangible too. Not just something he could have, something he _will_.

“I’ve got an apartment,” he offers. “I was going to order pizza and watch Netflix. I’ve got a couch. And a bed.”

“Bed sounds a lot better than couch,” she says, biting back on her own smile. “But I’d take either.”

He really wasn’t expecting to smile this much tonight. Not with how pissed he was an hour ago. Pissed at _her_ , no less. “Might as well start with pizza and see how it goes.”

“I could start with pizza,” Clarke agrees, and he’s pretty sure he knows exactly where they’re going to end up.

But it’s not like she doesn’t. So it’s cool.

*

“I don’t think I’ve learned a valuable lesson about not cutting people off,” Clarke says. Bellamy’s trying to get a little more making out in before she goes to the airport; she’s not moving back for another month, so he’s making the most of her while he’s got her.

Until she gets back.

“If anything, this is encouraging my–” He nips her neck, and she loses track of her sentence with a gasp.

“Don’t tell me you sleep with all the people you cut off,” he teases.

“Did I not mention this was a kink?” She pushes him off her, still grinning. “I really need to get going. But I’ll see you in a month, right?”

“It’s a date,” he says, and when he gets stuck at the train crossing on his way to pick her up from the airport next month, all he can do is smile.

So he’ll be a little late. He’ll still make it.


	15. Risk/Reward Timestamp: Marriage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [youre-a-trainwreck](http://youre-a-trainwreck.tumblr.com/)! Original fic [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5286959).

The nice thing about having a relationship based on straightforward communication and honesty is that Bellamy can start a conversation with, “Hey, should we get married?” and not worry Clarke’s going to be offended.

And of course she’s not. She doesn’t even blink. “In general, or soon?”

“Both, but I was more worried about soon. I thought we were pretty much agreed we wanted to get married in general.”

“Living in sin is pretty cool,” she muses. “You want to get married soon?”

“I bought you a ring,” he admits. “If I didn’t want to give it to you, I would have saved the money.” His ability to be completely casual about the whole thing dies a sudden and not completely unexpected death, and he leans down to kiss her. “Also, I really want to marry you. Like, a lot.”

“In general,” Clarke says, with a smile.

“And soon.”

“So is this proposing?”

“It can be.” He smiles. “Honestly, it’s checking in. If you don’t want to get married yet, it’s not like that’s a deal-breaker for me. I’m happy. But–yeah. I know you don’t want to live together until we get married, and I get that. I don’t either.”

“But you’re ready.”

“I’m ready, yeah.”

She nods. “Okay, cool. You can give me a ring whenever. But we have to talk to the kid about it. You want to do it before or after the official proposal?”

“Are we giving her veto power?” he asks. Clarke cocks her head, and he crosses his arms, leaning against the table. “Not veto power, maybe, but–are we asking her or telling her? If we do it before, we’re saying she’s got a vote too. That’s why I asked you before I actually proposed. I wasn’t going to unless you wanted me to. If Sophie says she doesn’t want us to get married, how much weight are we giving that?”

He can’t, in all honesty, say it’s a possibility he’s seriously worried about. He and Clarke have been together for eighteen months, and Sophie has known about them for most of that time. It took her a little while to get used to him again, after he started dating Clarke, but by now, she likes him.

He thinks she loves him. He thinks she might call him _Dad_ , if he asked, and the thought of it is almost as overwhelming as the thought of Clarke marrying him.

So he wants to be prepared for the worst. In case it happens.

“No, she doesn’t get a vote,” Clarke says, slow. “I’m marrying you. That’s non-negotiable. But I think you should probably talk to her about it.”

“Just me?”

“You’re good at this.”

“So, you don’t want to,” he teases, and Clarke leans up to kiss him.

“I think you should tell her you want to be her dad again. And that’s a conversation for you two. It can be about how I’m going to marry you, but–”

“What if she doesn’t want me to?” he asks, soft. “What if–”

“Bellamy. She loves you. I love you. You’re part of the family. This is–a formality. An awesome one I’m excited about,” she adds quickly. “But it’s not _new_. I love you, I’m going to spend the rest of my life with you. So you should just tell our daughter you want to be her dad officially. You already are in every other way.”

He’s not going to cry. “There’s no way my actual proposal is going to beat that,” he says, voice thick.

“It doesn’t have to. Just give me the ring and we’re set.”

“I’m at least getting down on one knee,” he protests.

“Sure,” says Clarke. “Knock yourself out. I’m going to say yes.”

“Cool. Glad we covered that.” He leans down for another kiss. “Want to have sex before dinner?”

She laughs. “I really do.”

*

When Bellamy proposed to Lily, he did everything by the book, which he mistakenly assumed meant he was doing it right. He proposed to her in the park where they had their second date, he had a nice speech prepared that she seemed to appreciate. It was a picture-perfect moment.

But it didn’t really have anything to do with _them_. Which was kind of the whole problem with that relationship, in a nutshell.

“I need your help with something,” he tells Sophie.

She looks up, slightly distrustful. “Is it taking out the garbage again?”

“Nope. Nothing bad.” He sits down next to her on the floor. “But it’s pretty serious.”

“Serious?”

“I asked your mom if she wants to marry me, and she said yes. But I haven’t proposed yet.” Sophie frowns, and he says, “I know in the movies people just ask, but in real life, it’s good to talk about it first. I wanted to make sure she wanted to marry me first.”

“And she does?”

“Yeah. So I still need to propose.”

“That’s dumb. Why do you have to ask twice?”

“Okay, I don’t _have_ to. I want to. It’s–” He smiles. “It’s just one of those gross adult things. I want to tell her I love her a lot.”

“That is gross.”

“I know. I’m incredibly gross. But I still need your help.”

“Why?”

“Well, for one thing, I’m going to marry your mom. So that means we need to figure out what you want.”

“What I want?”

“I can be your dad,” he says, and he’s amazed his voice comes out steady. “Or I can keep being Bellamy. Or I can be something else, I don’t know. But it’s going to be different for you too, and we should figure that out.”

She climbs into his lap. “What’s going to be different?”

“I’m going to live here,” he says. “I’ll probably–you know how when I pick you up from school, your mom says I’m helping her out? It’s not really helping out, once I live here. I’ll be taking care of you too, all the time. And if anything happened to your mom, you’d still live with me.”

“What if something happens to her before you get married? I wouldn’t stay with you?”

She sounds so spooked, Bellamy wraps his arms around her and holds her close. He doesn’t like talking about this, but–she’s already lost one parent. He remembers how it was, being young and only having his mother. “I think right now you’d go live with your granddad,” he tells her.

“But you’d still come see me, right?”

“Yeah, I would. As much as you wanted.”

“Do you have to marry Mom?”

He swallows hard. “I want to. Do you–you don’t want me to marry her?”

“No, I do. But–do you have to marry her? To be my dad? Or can I live with you even if you don’t get married?”

“Oh,” he says, and it’s not really that much easier to breathe, but he’s choked up for happier reasons. “No, I can be your dad as soon as you want. Any time you’re ready.”

“Now?”

“Yeah.” He holds her closer. It’s been hard for at least six months, to be such a big part of her and Clarke’s lives and to know that–it’s not like he needs a marriage certificate and paperwork to know they’re a family. But he wants it anyway. “That’s fine.”

“And you’re going to live with us,” she says. It’s not a question.

“Yeah. Me and Mom can talk about when I’m moving. We could do it before we get married. Weddings can take a while.”

“Good,” she says, and squirms around so she can go back to her coloring.

“I needed something else,” he says.

“What?”

“Can you draw a picture for me?”

“Okay. You can have this one,” she says, giving him what he is like seventy percent sure is a T-Rex dancing with a unicorn.

“I meant a specific picture. For yo–for Mom.”

“Oh. Yeah. What?”

“Just the three of us.”

“And Nani and Lilo?”

He smiles. “Yeah. The whole family.”

To Sophie, _the whole family_ apparently isn’t just the three of them and the dogs, but also Jake and Octavia and Lincoln and Grace and Raven and Wells, and another T-Rex. But she sits in his lap and tells him what name to write above each person, and when she gets to him, she says _Dad_ , just as easily as she said Mom for Clarke, so, really, it’s going to get the point across.

He kisses her temple.

“Thanks, Soph.”

“You’re welcome. Are you going to ask her now?”

“Yeah. Why, you want to come?”

She screws up her face. “Are you guys are going to kiss?”

“Yeah, definitely.”

“I’ll stay here.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t want to come either. We’re going to be so gross. But we can get ice cream after. We’ll get you for that.”

This seems to please her, and Bellamy gives her a last squeeze before she gets off him and returns to her own drawings. He lets himself watch her for a minute, nearly asks her to call him Dad again, but–she’d just tell him he’s being weird.

Besides, it’s not like she’s never going to say it again. They’re agreed; he’s her dad now. This is how it’s going to be.

Clarke’s sitting at her desk, working on a new book cover, and he leans in to kiss her jaw, soft.

“Busy,” she says.

“Will you marry me?”

“In like an hour,” she says, and he laughs.

“I think it’ll take longer than that to finalize.” He pauses, rests his chin on her shoulder to gauge how much she actually wants him to leave. When she leans back into him, he takes it to mean she wants to talk. “If you die, Sophie wants to live with me, not your dad.”

Clarke pauses. “How do you end up in these conversations?”

“I was telling her what was going to be different once we got married. She doesn’t want to wait for you to update your will. Or for me to wait on moving in.” He shows her the picture. “Also I’m her dad now,” he says, utterly failing to sound even a little cool.

Clarke presses her cheek against his where he’s still propped against her shoulder. “Congrats.”

“I told her to draw the picture, but she picked the family members and gave me the titles. Unprompted.”

“You’re acting like this is a surprise. You’re her dad, Bellamy. You have been for months. Just because she wasn’t calling you that doesn’t mean it’s not true. But–I’m glad you guys talked about it.”

“Yeah, me too.” He tugs her up out of the chair so he can get down on one knee. He knows she doesn’t care about the proposal, but it’s the kind of not caring that means he doesn’t have to do this, not that she won’t appreciate it. “That picture? That’s basically everything I want. And I know you want it too. So–will you marry me?”

He thinks she’s tearing up. “Even the T-Rex?”

“Even the T-Rex.”

“Good.” She tugs him up for a kiss. “Of course I’ll marry you. I already said yes. There wasn’t any suspense.”

“Yeah, but now you get a ring. And ice cream.”

“I didn’t know there was going to be ice cream.”

“I’m a provider,” he says. “We should figure out when I’m moving in. Sophie wants it to be soon.”

“As soon as possible.” She buries her face against his neck; she’s definitely crying a little. “Seriously, I don’t know what took so long.”


	16. Pokemon Get Off My Lawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [schmahlo](http://schmahlo.tumblr.com)! Prompt: Bellarke: parks and rec AU with pokemon go

Bellamy’s official position, as a government employee, is that everyone should just get off his lawn. He has such a noted reputation for being a prematurely grumpy old man that Clarke actually leveraged it into a successful fundraising campaign– _Get Off Bellamy’s Lawn and Into a Park!_ –in City Hall. Everyone knows his opinion on technology, kids today, and how social media is destroying civilization.

So he is, to say the least, _upset_ about Pokemon Go.

“You know as a parks department employee, you’re supposed to be happy about people going to the park, right?” Clarke asks. She’s thrilled, of course. People are coming to parks in droves, and it’s only been like a day. This is Clarke in her element, and it’s slightly awkward to try to balance his genuine annoyance with the whole world with how cute Clarke is when she’s excited.

Feelings are so bad for his entire existence.

“They don’t pay me enough to experience happiness,” he grouses. “My pay rate just entitles them to me not making constituents cry.”

“On purpose,” she adds.

“I haven’t made anyone cry in months,” he says, and Clarke grins and bumps his shoulder.

“Come on. It’s going to be fun.”

“I don’t even have a phone that can get Pokemon Go. I don’t know what you’re expecting me to add to this exercise.”

“You’re my control case,” she says. “I’m the one who’s interested in Pokemon Go. You’re the person who’s coming along with me to gauge how annoying it’s going to be for people who don’t care about it.”

“I don’t think I’m really the best control case for that,” he can’t help pointing out. “I think my baseline for annoyance is way above average.”

She loops her arm into his, giving him a bright smile. “Come on, you need to get outside and walk around. It’s a nice day. You can glare at kids who are laughing too loudly.”

“Fine. But I’m not going to enjoy it.”

She rolls her eyes. “Obviously not.”

*

Like Clarke said, it’s a beautiful day, not too hot, with a nice breeze and clear blue skies. Clarke drives them to his favorite park, which of course she _knows_ is his favorite park, because Clarke is passionate about her job on a level he can’t even comprehend. Bellamy works at the parks department because they hired him and he likes nature; Clarke works here in the first step of a plan to take over the world, from what he can tell.

Which, good for her, she’ll be great at it. The world will be better off. But–he hopes she rules from somewhere close to him.

“Okay, so, I got the app and I made a profile. And I got an orange Pokemon.”

“Charmander,” he says, before he realizes he shouldn’t, and she lights up with glee.

“You know the Pokemon’s name.”

“I do like video games.”

“So, you like video games. You like parks. You like being outside. Where does this whole Pokemon Go thing fall apart for you? I honestly don’t get it.”

“It’s a stupid gimmick. It’s going to blow over in a week. There’s no reason to waste time and resources on reaching out to people who are just going with the latest fad.”

“You’re seriously overestimating how much time and effort is going into Pokemon Go outreach.”

“Two government officials are in a park looking into Pokemon Go outreach,” he says.

She smiles. “Or two government officials are taking a walk, taking a look at the park, while they happen to have Pokemon Go open. And I tell you about programs I’ve read about that I think we could adopt that wouldn’t take too much effort on our part. It’s basically a business meeting. But in the sun.”

“Why are you so into this?” he asks, looking down at her quizzically. “I know you love basically everything about parks as a personality trait, but why this?”

“Why not this? It’s a demographic we don’t usually get and they’re motivated to come out. Why wouldn’t we take advantage of it for as long as we can? I don’t care if it’s a fad. It doesn’t have to be a fad _here_. We could keep it going.”

He sighs. “So, what are these programs?” he says, and she grins.

“I’m glad you asked.”

Clarke, naturally, has a ten-point plan for how to maximize the benefits of Pokemon Go for as long as it’s popular, and that’s the thing about Clarke. On one level, he absolutely does not get her. Being this invested in parks is alien to him, and given his job, he’s more invested in parks than most people are.

On another level, he has trouble being upset about anyone being this passionate about anything. The world could use more people like Clarke.

“I think the shelters should be our first priority,” she’s saying. “If people will really take dogs out while they’re playing the game, that’s awesome. Anything we can do to encourage community involvement. Like you said, it’s probably mot going to last. But even it it doesn’t, we can still try to leverage it into some long-term good.”

“You really think that’s going to work?”

“I don’t get what you think is going to go wrong with this plan. It’s not like there’s some horrible nightmare scenario that comes from people coming to the park for Pokemon Go.”

“What if they don’t?” he asks.

“Don’t what?”

“What if they don’t come, and they don’t take dogs out, and they don’t–what if no one gives a shit?”

“Your worst-case scenario is that people don’t care? That happens all the time.”

“I’m waiting for whatever makes you realize you care about this shit more than anyone else does,” he admits. “At some point, bureaucracy and apathy are going to wear you down. I don’t want it to happen because of _Pokemon_.”

“I know I care about this more than anyone else does. It would be hard not to notice that.” She pauses. “Well, anyone but you.”

“ _Me_?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“You think I care as much about this as you do.”

“I get to be the optimist. I have ideas, you shoot them down. But you don’t shoot them down because it’s fun.”

“Do you not get how fun that is for me?” he asks, but his voice sounds a little off, even to his own ears. “It’s really fun for me.”

“You care about making sure we do stuff right. That’s not nothing, Bellamy. Maybe you care a little more bitterly than some people–” He snorts, and she bumps his shoulder with her own. “You want the parks department to succeed. You want us to do a good job. And you care more about helping me make sure we do than anyone else in the city hall. Why do you think our department works so well? It’s not just me.”

“I can’t believe we’re having a heartwarming conversation about Pokemon Go,” he mutters.

“You started it. I’m not going to burn out. Not as long as I’ve got you to argue with me.”

“So, your spite for me is what keeps you going. That’s what I’m hearing.”

“No, it’s not,” she says. “Oh, hey, Pokemon! What’s this one?”

“Caterpie. It’s shitty.”

“I’m catching it anyway,” she says, and holds up her phone to do just that. “See? Got it?” Her smile is huge. “Fun, right?”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Fun.”

*

“I can’t believe you talked me into this.”

“You don’t trust anyone in the Animal Control department,” Clarke says. “Drink your coffee.”

He takes a sip, but just because he’s tried. Not because she told him to.

It’s been–weird. Since their conversation in the park. Or maybe it’s just him. She doesn’t seem to think that his being a vital part of her daily motivation is a big deal. Then again, it wasn’t news to her.

“I don’t trust anyone,” he says, scowling, and she pats his arm.

“Sure you don’t. Come on, you want to see if this works. Don’t pretend like you don’t.”

“And if it doesn’t, I need to be here to tell you it’s not your fault?”

“Of course it’s my fault.”

“I’m still trying to figure out my exact duties as your cheerleading squad.”

She flashes him a quick smile as she unlocks the animal shelter. “That bothers you, doesn’t it? Does saying that you care about your job count as fighting words in your book?”

“It doesn’t bother me,” he says, even though he’s pretty sure the petulance in his voice makes it completely unconvincing. It’s still mostly true. “It’s just a lot of responsibility, right?”

“You already do it,” she says. “No special effort required. Just you being you.”

He swallows hard. “That’s it, huh?”

“That’s it.” She smiles. “If this goes really poorly, you can buy me a beer. That’s the extent of your responsibilities as the angry black cloud to my sunbeam.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t exactly call you a sunbeam. Not terrifying enough.” He wets his lips. “If it goes well, do you buy me a beer?”

“Do you want one?”

“Yeah.”

“Then yeah. No matter how it goes, we get a beer after.”

They get the place ready in silence for a few minutes, but he can’t keep it up. He needs her to–he needs to tell her something that unbalances her as much as she unbalanced him. He needs her to get it.

“You know you’re like that for me too, right?” he asks. “I would have fucking quit years ago, if you didn’t work here. I need someone who knows how to deal with all the red tape without telling everyone in the entire municipal government they’re assholes, and it’s definitely not me. You’re–I know I don’t always act like it, but–I need you here, too. It might not seem like it, but–”

She fists her hand in his t-shirt and tugs him down to her. The kiss is firm and way too fast, just a smack of lips, and then she’s patting his chest and moving away. “I know, Bellamy.”

The most confusing part is that she apparently really does.

“You better be nice to Pokemon Go after this,” she says, and his laughter comes out as a sudden bark.

“I’ll be nice,” he says. “I still think it’s a fad.”

“You couldn’t be a little optimistic? Just this once?”

“Apparently that’s not what I’m here for.”

“No,” she agrees. “I still think it’s going to be great.”

He can’t help sliding his hand into her hair, letting himself kiss her one more time, just to make sure it’s real.

“Yeah, I can’t wait for you to buy me that beer,” he says, but judging by her smile, she knows exactly what he means.

It’s absolutely going to be great.


	17. Les Chiens Les Plus Amusants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [assassinregrets](http://assassinregrets.tumblr.com). Prompt: I WANT THE FANCY DOG HAIRDRESSER AU THING it is in our txts from september 3rd
> 
> wow that prompt is not enlightening if you don't have access to my phone ANYWAY Bellamy accidentally starts posing as a fancy French dog groomer by accident I assume these are the conversations everyone has in text messages

Bellamy really doesn’t mean to start conning rich people. It happens really organically, and by the time he figures out that he is actually kind of conning them, there’s no way he’s going to _stop_. Especially when, honestly, it’s not even that much of a con. Just a silly costume, really.

He started walking dogs in high school because people were willing to pay him to do it, which seemed like a total racket at the time. He’s had so many shitty jobs in his life that his expectations were incredibly low, and even if dog-walking wasn’t as fun as he hoped it would be, it was still a huge improvement on basically anything else he might be doing to make money.

From the dog-walking, he got into other pet care, and somehow, without meaning to, he became a dog-groomer, and then, with even less of an idea how it happened, he became really French and pretentious.

It remains an incredibly confusing development in his life. But someone saw the name _Bellamy_ and then just _assumed_ , and before he knew it he was doing his best to pass off as some sort of expert on French dog grooming using three years of high-school language class and a half an hour a day of Duolingo.

Again, none of it is _on purpose_. Just one thing lead to another, and suddenly he had his own dog-grooming studio called _Beaucoup Bellamy_ and every one of his friends makes fun of him about it non-stop.

Which he is more than willing to take, as he both deserves it and can charge his excessively rich clients extra because they think he’s some stylish guy with his finger on the pulse of the top dog fashions in Paris.

“Look, anyone who cares about the top dog fashions in Paris deserves to get ripped off, okay?” he tells Octavia, when she just stares at him. She refuses to pretend to be anything aside from who she is, which is why Bellamy is happy to let her work for him, but keeps her from interacting with the customers as much as possible. Just to be safe.

“You’re doing a special dog spa that’s just letting the dogs run around the park for two hours and then washing them.”

“And it makes the dogs really happy, just like I said it would,” he says. “It’s not like the fine print doesn’t say exactly what’s happening. Not my fault no one reads the fine print.”

“Someone’s going to figure out what you’re doing eventually.”

It’s an old argument. “Oh, yeah, no question,” he agrees, easy. “But I’m faking a French accent and they’re paying twenty bucks extra for it. I’m not doing anything illegal. I’m giving them the exact service I say I’m giving them.”

“Uh huh. I’m sure that’s going to convince everyone.”

Even if someone finds out, he can’t imagine it will cause a huge scandal. At worst, he’ll have to rebrand. He could afford to, and he wouldn’t mind escaping from the whole pompous rich scene. He could just run a regular doggy spa. Maybe a boarding place, for when people go on vacation. He’s pretty good at the dog thing by now.

So when he says, “It’ll be fine, O,” he really means it.

*

Eleanor Clarke was never one of Bellamy’s favorite clients. For one thing, she never said _Call me Eleanor_ , like every other one of his regulars, but insisted on being _Madame Clarke_ , which, okay, whatever, that’s her right, but it was also kind of awkward. If she’d been good with her dog, it wouldn’t have bothered him so much, but poor Duchess always seemed to be a nervous wreck. She’s a nice dog, but Madame Clarke treated her more like an accessory than a living being. It’s not uncommon, but it always makes him sad.

So when he sees in the paper that she’s passed away, he’s upset only in the most limited sense. It’s sad when people die, and somewhat sadder when it’s someone he knows, but he doesn’t think it’s going to have a huge effect on his life. He’ll miss Duchess, but he has plenty of other dogs in his life. He just hopes that Madame Clarke left her to a good home in her will.

It’s three weeks after he sees the obituary when Duchess comes back, with a pretty blonde girl in jeans and a faded henley. She looks nothing like his usual clientele, so he assumes she’s a personal assistant or something.

He kneels down to the dog, letting her sniff him and lick his hands. “Bonjour, Duchess,” he says, keeping his eyes on her and not on her owner. It’s always a lot more embarrassing to put his act on in front of people his age, especially attractive people. But he knows how it is when he actually code-switches; humans get English, animals get Tagalog. He’s being realistic. “Ça va?” He straightens and smiles at the girl, leaves the thick accent in place even when he switches languages. “I was sorry to hear about Madame Clarke. But I’m glad to see her dog is still in good hands.”

“Based on what?” she asks, sounding dubious.

“Ah,” he says, and feels like the biggest tool of all time. His accent is _so embarrassing_. “You brought her back to me, so that shows excellent taste. The usual grooming?”

“What is the usual?”

“Caniche Spécial,” he says.

“Poodle Special?”

She’s cute, she’s his age, and she speaks French. She’s going to figure him out in ten minutes flat. “Yes,” he says, anyway. “I have a catalog, if you’d like to see our other options.”

“I was thinking she might just like–having fur,” says the woman. “I’m not really into topiary pets. I know it needs time to grow out, so if you could just make her look–I googled and I know she needs to get groomed, but I want it just curly and even, not special. Caniche Ordinaire. Is that an option?”

“Of course,” he says. “It will take a little time,” he adds. “For the–” He scratches the dog’s ears. “The fur that is shorter will still be noticeable, until it grows out.”

“Yeah, that’s fine. I’m still pretty new at this dog thing, so I’ll trust your judgement.”

“How did you get her?”

“Madame Clarke was my grandmother,” she says.

“Oh. I’m so sorry for your loss.” Somehow, saying it in his phony accent makes him feel like a total creep, but–this is the life he has chosen.

“Thank you,” she says. “I’m Clarke, by the way.” Her immediate, wry smile is incredibly endearing. “My mom did the thing where she took my dad’s name when they got married and then gave me her maiden name. Sorry if it’s confusing.”

“No. I’m Bellamy.” He offers his hand and she takes it. “A wash and a grooming? No styling, just cutting it down so it won’t tangle.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I was looking for.”

“About an hour,” he says. “You’re free to wait or come back.”

“I have some stuff to work on, if there’s somewhere for me to sit?”

“Yes, right in here.”

She thanks him, and he smiles, takes Duchess into the back, and tries and fails to not think about her in the waiting room.

It’s definitely going to be bad.

*

Clarke comes in once a month, like her grandmother did, and chats with him for a few minutes before he takes the dog back for her bathing and grooming. He finds out she’s twenty-seven, four years younger than he is, she’s an artist, and she moved here only a few months before her grandmother died, after she broke up with her ex-girlfriend and decided she wanted a break.

That’s how he learns she’s bisexual too, which he absolutely does not file away as important information. Because he doesn’t have a crush on her. She thinks he’s a pretentious French dog groomer with an over-the-top accent; he absolutely cannot have a crush on her. If he wanted to ask her out, he’d have to either come clean about his stupid marketing ploy, or he’d have to wear his ugly fake mustache and maintain his shitty accent for however long she was willing to go out with him.

Which is why he doesn’t have a crush on her. He definitely doesn’t wander into the waiting room to chat with her while O works on Duchess, and he doesn’t make sure he’s always working when she comes in. He does none of those things, and everything is totally fine.

Until he sees her at the fucking _grocery store_.

Bellamy lives forty minutes away from his store, because his store is in a fucking expensive neighborhood, and he can’t afford rent on both the shop and an apartment there. He takes the train in and never really worries about seeing any of his clients off work hours, because no one who comes to his dog salon would ever come out to his shitty neighborhood anyway.

Except, apparently, Clarke does.

He’s hoping she won’t notice him, but before he can duck out of the way, she looks up from her phone, meets his eye, and _smirks_.

It’s Sunday morning; he didn’t bother putting in his contacts or getting changed out of his pajamas. He looks like a fucking _wreck_ , hair a mess, stubble all over his cheeks, and–

His hand flies up to his upper lip, where there is very obviously no mustache.

“ _Lintik_ ,” he breathes.

“Wow,” says Clarke, and he opens and closes his mouth a couple times, not sure how to respond. “I knew you were hot, but this is so much more of an improvement than I expected.”

“Sorry?” he manages.

“I was just picturing you without the mustache. I never even thought about glasses and–wow, you have _great_ hair. And your arms are amazing, but I kind of expected that.” She cocks her head. “What was language was that?”

“Uh,” he says.

“I know you’re not French.”

“Jesus, thank fuck,” he says, all of the tension being forced out of his body by the relief. “Tagalog. I’m Filipino.”

“That makes more sense. So you pretend to be French because it’s, what, better for business?”

“It was an accident.”

“You accidentally made up an elaborate alternate persona where you’re a French dog groomer?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “It sounds so shitty when you put it like that. It just kind of–happened.” He sighs. “Someone thought I was French because Bellamy’s a French name, and I realized that made them think I was better at my job, so–I kind of leaned into it.”

“I think the worst part is your beliefs about how to be French,” Clarke says, thoughtful. “Fake mustache and greasy hair?”

“It’s not grease, it’s gel,” he grumbles. “And I’m just playing into other people’s stereotypes, so they’re the assholes, not me.”

“Uh huh. Sure. That’s totally how it works.” But she’s grinning, and he finds he’s smiling too. He can’t help it. She’s so gorgeous, and she doesn’t seem pissed at all.

“Can we get back to the part where you think I look hot? Because I’m wearing pajamas and haven’t shaved all weekend, so–you have really bad taste in guys.”

“You look comfortable. And, seriously, your hair is so much better like this.”

“Thanks, I guess.” He wets his lips. “So, uh–what are you doing here?”

“Buying groceries, obviously. I come to your salon because it’s where my grandmother went, not because it’s convenient.” She pauses. “And because you’re cute and your accent is hilarious.”

“I guess one of those is positive.”

“They both are,” she says. “But this is a lot better. I like your real voice.” For the first time in the conversation, she looks a little hesitant. “Is the rest of it true?”

“The rest of it?”

“You’re thirty-one, also bisexual, younger sister, got into the salon thing because you like dogs and grew up poor–”

“Oh, yeah. Everything’s real except for the accent and the mustache.”

“Cool. So–what are you doing after this?”

“Going home and making lunch. You hungry?”

“Starving. But I shouldn’t leave the dog alone for too long, so–want to come to my place?”

He makes them lunch and they watch Netflix and he tells her the whole I-accidentally-opened-up-a-French-dog-salon story, and she cackles, and when he kisses her, she smiles and kisses back, hand tangling in his hair.

“I’ve been wanting to do that all day,” she murmurs.

“I’ve been wanting to do it a lot longer,” he admits.

She grins. “I meant playing with your hair. Kissing, yeah, way longer.”

“Good,” he says, and leans back in.

*

The first time she comes in for a grooming after that, she can’t stop giggling, and everyone agrees it would be better if she came in after hours when Duchess has an appointment, just so that she won’t lose it in front of all the other customers.

It’s a little more work for him, but he doesn’t mind. She’s totally, totally worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In keeping with Bellamy's level of French competence, I relied on middle-school French classes and google translate for that. [misterrsulu](http://misterrsulu.tumblr.com) kindly supplied me with the Tagalog.


	18. Protect and/or Serve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [amusednow](http://amusednow.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: Bellarke version of White House Down (or just President Bellamy/Secret Service Agent Clarke).

The thing about being in the secret service is that, the vast majority of the time, it’s just not actually _interesting_. There’s a lot of romanticizing of all kinds of law enforcement, but Clarke feels like secret service might get the worst of it. Because her life is mostly mind-numbing boredom with a constant background buzz of anxiety. It’s not all battling terrorists and saving Air Force One. A lot of the time it’s just hanging out on the couch with the president while he makes faces at Netflix.

When she tells him as much, he says, “Wait, are you not familiar with the _president’s daughter_ film genre? Because secret service totally gets to be comic relief in those.”

“Is that how you prepared to be the president?” she asks. “Just watched a bunch of movies about the president’s daughter? That would have prepared you better if you had kids.”

“Jesus, you sound like my campaign adviser,” he says, groaning and closing his eyes. “I thought once I got elected he’d stop caring I’m not married, but apparently getting elected when I’m single was a fluke the first time, so I should get married before the next election, just to be safe. And I watched them with Octavia,” he adds, as an afterthought. “So shut the fuck up.”

Clarke glances at him sidelong, eye catching on the strong line of his neck, the prominent bulge of his Adam’s apple. She doesn’t draw that much anymore, but he does make her fingers itch, sometimes.

He is, arguably, the most eligible bachelor in the entire world. Which can be a little hard to remember, given he’s also probably the world’s biggest dork, but, well, that’s part of his charm too. He’s attractive, he’s intelligent, but he’s also working that Obama kind of dorky dad vibe and is, of course, one of the most powerful people on the planet.

So she’s far from the only person to have a thing for him. She’s not even the only person on his staff to have a thing for him. But she’s one of the only people who gets him like _this_ , just the two of them, hanging out on the couch, Bellamy in a pair of faded pajama bottoms and a Williams t-shirt, glasses crooked on his nose. He looks more like a dorky frat kid than the president, and she loves it.

“Someone should tell your campaign adviser about incumbent presidents. And your approval ratings. Is that covered in any of the movies in the _president’s daughter_ genre? Maybe you can just have him watch a couple of those.”

“I definitely should.” He rolls his head over to look at her. “Sorry, do you not like being secret service? Do you want a transfer? What can I do to increase your job satisfaction? Do I need to get held hostage so you can rescue me?”

“Fuck, no,” she says, way too quickly. He raises his eyebrows, and she glares at him. “I have nightmares about you being held hostage. Why do you think I’m stressed all the time?”

“Basic personality trait,” he says, but he wraps his arm around her and gives her a quick squeeze. “I don’t have nightmares about that, because I know you and Miller would never let it happen, okay?”

“Kennedy had secret service too.”

“Clarke.”

“I know,” she says. “I didn’t mean it like–it’s just so hard to explain what it’s like. Right now, I know nothing’s going to happen to you. No one’s going to break in and try to murder you. But–they _might_.”

“Seriously, basic personality trait. You think Miller is this stressed all the time? If you’d become a doctor or gone to art school, it would be the same thing.” He grins. “Well, a little less. I get how terrifying it is, having to live without _me_ –”

She elbows him. “Never mind. Bring on the assassins.”

“I could definitely have the FBI investigate you for that. You’d lose your security clearance.”

“And you’d start having nightmares about getting kidnapped.”

“True.” He squeezes her shoulder again. “You want me to add something to my next state of the union about how the media needs to get better at depicting the lives of secret service agents?”

“It’s the least you can do,” she grumbles. “Give me the remote.”

*

“Where is he,” Clarke says, flat. “I’m going to murder him.”

In spite of everything, it makes Miller’s mouth twitch. “I’ll take _Things You shouldn’t Say When You Want to See the President_ for $400, Alex.” But he softens immediately. “He’s fine. He said he wanted to be alone. But–”

“He’s going to see me.”

“I was going to say, he said to send you in. He was worried about you.”

Clarke feels her jaw twitch, but there’s no point in yelling at _Miller_. Not when Bellamy’s in the safe room, and she can yell at him instead. Misplaced anger doesn’t help anyone.

“I know you’re freaked, but he is too,” he adds, as gentle as Clarke’s ever heard him. It would be funny, if she had room for any more emotional reactions right now. “No one really knows what they’ll do in a situation like that until they’re in it. We already told him he fucked up.”

“He can never hear it too much,” she mutters, but when the door opens and she sees him sitting on the couch, looking drawn and exhausted, every day of his thirty-nine years and then some, her anger drains. She knows the job ages people, but it’s easy for her to miss, being with him every day.

“Clarke,” he breathes, and she finds herself in his arms, held tight and firm, and she’s clutching back to him. _Safe_. He’s safe. “Fuck, I was so worried.”

The moment snaps, and rage flares back, bright as ever. She shoves him away and takes another look, critical this time, checking for injuries. He’s rumpled, hasn’t changed yet, but completely and totally unscathed. “ _You_ were worried?” she demands. “Do you not get how this works? It’s my job to deal with threats on your life, I can’t do that if _you’re_ trying to protect _me_. I’m trained in this, you can’t just–”

“I know,” he says. His voice is so soft. “Fuck, I know. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know that would–”

“The threat was on you, not me.” Her jaw works. “I know we joke around, but I _am_ actually competent at my job, and I can take care of you. If I get hurt, that’s–”

“Fuck, Clarke, no,” he says, holding his hands up. “That’s not–jesus, I get that, okay? I know I’m not–you’re trained in this, it’s your job, you’re fucking good at it. You neutralized the threat and got everyone out safely. That’s not–” He runs his hand through his hair. “If my sister had been there, I would have done the same thing.”

“Your sister?” she asks, lost.

The color drains from his face. “No, not–that was the wrong thing to say.”

“This is _bad_ , Bellamy. If your instinct when there’s a threat is to protect _me_ , I can’t work for you.”

“Yeah, you probably shouldn’t.”

Even though it was her idea, the words hit her harder than anything else today. She’s been shot at, fought off an actual threat on the president’s life, and got a pretty bad kick to the jaw, but this is still the worst.

Still, she nods, turns away. “All right. I’ll let them know I need to be–”

He catches her wrist. “Clarke, wait, that’s not–” He slides his hand down, tangles his fingers with hers. “I should have said something sooner. I should have known it would be a problem, if anything ever happened. I know I’m–I’m the president. Protecting me is the most important thing. But I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you. And that’s not–you can’t do your job, if I feel like that.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” she says, but it’s a little faint. He’s squeezing her fingers, his gaze intense, and she thinks he might be saying exactly what she thinks he is.

“I do,” he says. “I’m not some college kid with a crush. I can’t just act like–I should have said something before I put both of us in danger. I don’t think you should be responsible for my security because I’m in love with you, and that’s not safe for either of us.” He makes a face. “Jesus, that sounds so bad. I’m not going to fire you because I’m–”

Clarke pulls herself out the haze of disbelief and tugs his hand, bringing him closer. He’s warm and firm and _alive_ , and he tried to get her out of the line of fire because he can’t help protecting the people he cares about. It’s not a bad instinct for a politician to have, but–he’s right. She can’t keep working for him, feeling like she does.

Like _he_ does.

“I get it,” she says, and hooks her arm around his neck to kiss him.

His response is instant, his free hand grabbing her hip, his mouth relieved and desperate on hers, all the tension of the day coming out in it. She lets go of his hand so she can tangle her fingers in his hair, and he tugs her toward the couch, getting her in his lap.

“We really shouldn’t hook up in the safe room,” she says.

His laugh is delighted. “Yeah, probably not.” He drops his face against the curve of her neck, breathes her in. “I’m really fucking sorry I–I know I fucked up. I was so scared I would get you killed.”

“I know,” she says. She rubs his scalp, closing her eyes and just savoring having him here, tangible. She can feel the beat of his heart. “This is going to be a pain. Republicans are going to call for an investigation into inappropriate conduct. Maybe sexual harassment.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I think we can deal with that.”

“And your campaign manager will be happy,” she adds, without thinking. “Not that–” she starts, and he laughs.

“I know.” He rubs his thumb against her side. “My endgame is probably marrying you,” he tells her. “If everything goes well.”

She closes her eyes and lets herself think about it. “Well, we’d better watch all those president’s daughter movies, then. If you want kids too.”

He laughs. “Sure. But no rush.”

She leans down for another kiss. It’s going to be such a huge fucking mess, probably dominating the news cycle for months. But–she’ll get him in the end. She’ll have him the whole time.

“No rush,” she agrees.


	19. And Who's to Say That They Won't Sing to Me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [islandoforder](http://islandoforder.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: 100 version of Voltron: Legendary Defender please, ideally with bellarke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't seen Voltron and really just like awks aliens a lot tbh

If there’s an upside to being in the middle of an intergalactic war, it’s this: there isn’t much time to think about anything else. Even though she isn’t actually fighting, Clarke still has plenty to do. The paladins aren’t completely inexperienced, but they’ve never handled anything like the Voltron before, and she’s the last living expert on that.

Which is exactly what she doesn’t want to be thinking about. Good, then, that she has the war to throw herself into. She has more of a head for strategy than any of the paladins–except Bellamy, of course–and more of a knowledge of both their assets and their enemies. She has as many duties as she can handle, and tries to take on more.

But then it’s time to go to sleep, and somehow, she’s never quite tired _enough_ for her to stop thinking. Not all the way.

Ten thousand years is such a long time. Ten thousand years, and the same war is still going. Even if they win, it’s hard to feel much hope for a universe that can’t settle its differences over the course of millennia.

So she goes to the gymnasium and runs until she’s too exhausted to do anything but collapse into sleep, and when she wakes, she has a war to fight.

After only a week, Bellamy comes and starts running with her.

Clarke isn’t a good runner. She’s a princess, and princesses don’t tend to be encouraged in athletic pursuits. And she’s been in suspended sleep for so long, her body is still strange, sluggish from disuse, readjusting to consciousness.

Bellamy is a soldier. He’s a strong, fit young man, athletic and solid, and he doesn’t get red and splotchy when he runs.

It would be nice if these human aliens were just a little more alien. If he didn’t have so many of the qualities she found attractive in males of her own species, back when there _were_ males of her own species.

“What are you doing here?” she demands, his third night running with her. It’s impossible to think of nothing when he’s there with her, even when he’s silent and focused, even when he doesn’t speak.

“Running. Sorry, is that not allowed?”

“Why are you doing it _now_?”

“Why are you?”

“I’m too busy the rest of the time,” she says.

“Me too.” He’s not looking at her, and there’s no good response to that. It’s just as true for him as it is for her, and he has as much of a right to be here as she does. It’s not his fault he makes her prickle with awareness. It should be nice, having something else to think about, but it’s not _helpful_ , when having him there just reminds her of all the best and worst parts of her life now.

“Sorry,” he says, pulling her from her thoughts. There’s no contrition in his voice, but that doesn’t surprise her. “Am I not supposed to be here?”

“You’re free to do what you like,” she says, firm, and speeds up her own track.

It’s another week before he remarks, “You know, there are better ways to deal with insomnia, Princess.”

She jerks her head to look at him; it feels like it should be some kind of innuendo, but there’s no trace of flirtation on his features. He looks–concerned. As if he’s truly worried about her.

“I didn’t move for ten-thousand years, Bellamy,” she says, turning her attention to the blank wall. “Exercise is still novel. Just because my mind didn’t register the inactivity doesn’t mean my body didn’t.”

“Yeah? What’s it like?”

She startles. “What?”

“Being asleep for that long and waking up.”

“I didn’t know how long it had been, so obviously I didn’t feel it.” She pauses, but his interest seems genuine. “It’s hard.”

“Yeah, you don’t say.”

The sarcasm actually makes her smile, and he returns it. She was expecting some sort of coddling, maybe comfort, but this is much better.

“If you want to talk about it, we can,” he goes on. “But if you don’t, that’s fine too. I don’t know what it’s like. I can’t even imagine. If this helps, great. If it doesn’t, we can figure out something else.”

“Are you checking up on me?” she asks, wary.

“Why wouldn’t I be? We’re a team, right? We need you. No one else knows about the Lions.”

“Do you always come up with excuses for why you care about people?” It comes out short, angry, but he doesn’t flinch.

“Basically always, yeah. My sister hates it.” He sighs. “Seriously, this is the stuff you learn when you’re a soldier. If someone needs help, you help them, because if something’s wrong with you and you miss something tomorrow, I’m the one who’s going to get killed. And–you don’t have anyone else to talk to. I can volunteer.”

It’s not as if she dislikes him. “Tell me about your sister,” she says, and he grins.

“Her name’s Octavia, you’d like her.”

It becomes a new part of their routine, an easy addition. Clarke doesn’t know much about the world the paladins come from, and they don’t have much time to talk about it most days, not when there are battles, not when there’s so much to do. It’s nice to just run and listen to his voice, and slowly it becomes easy to respond, to tell him what was the same on her world, or what was different.

It’s not hard to tell him; it’s just hard to remember to use the past tense. It was lifetimes ago.

“What will you do when the war ends?” she asks him one night.

“Do we win?”

She has to smile. “I assume you’re alive and you have choices. So yes, we win.”

“Get out of the army. If I win them the war, they have to give me a good pension and let me go back to Mars. Maybe get an education. I don’t know. What about you?”

“I have no idea. I assume your military or government could find a use for me.”

“I’m sure,” he says, dark. “We’ll come up with something better for you. Mars is cool. You’d like it.” His cheeks go dark, which she’s learned is a sign of embarrassment. The direction of blood flow is an emotional indicator, in humans. “Uh, obviously, you don’t–it’s just an option. It’s not as nice as Earth. Probably not what a princess is looking for. But–I like it.”

Her own smile is a surprise. “Then I’m sure I’d like it too.”

Before her hibernation, Clarke’s world was falling apart. She already wasn’t thinking about the kinds of things princesses were supposed to think about. She’d taken on more responsibility in the military, eschewing marriage and politics. She had lovers, and liked them. But the future, ten thousand years ago, was just as nebulous as it is now, dominated by war and death.

But she has to admit, back then, the end of the war didn’t bring much hope for her either. There would be a prince she didn’t care for, a life of politicking and children. A return to normalcy. She would have taken it, and gladly, to relieve her people’s suffering. But she couldn’t, and now here she is, a princess with no kingdom, a woman with no home world.

The future is still difficult.

“Hey, we’re watching a movie,” Bellamy says one night. It’s been three months, and things are going–well. As well as can be expected. The war isn’t won, but Clarke thinks it will be, in a way she never could believe it before.

“Excuse me?” she asks.

“Team movie night. You’re coming. We took a vote and we decided you haven’t bonded with us enough.”

She smiles a little. “Is bonding really something you can vote on?”

“It is now. Come on, you’ll have fun. It’s anthropological. An education on humanity through comedy. And I’m going instead of running, so if you don’t come, you’re going to be really lonely.”

His tone makes it a joke, but Clarke’s stomach lurches. She _would_ be lonely.

So she follows him.

It isn’t as if she doesn’t like the other paladins; she does. They’re all friendly enough, and she enjoys all their company, but–Bellamy’s the only one she feels close to. He’s the one who put in the effort, and he feels a little distant from them too. He’s the oldest, and the leader, and that creates a natural divide between him and the rest of them.

But that doesn’t keep him from being their friend, and she’d like to be too.

They’re all already in the common space, Raven with her feet in Harper’s lap, Monty curled into Miller’s side. Humans are big on physical contact, so she follows suit, settling herself in next to Bellamy. He’s very firm and broad, and he smells nice. He’s tense for a minute, but then he puts his own arm around her, and she settles in, feeling the rise and fall of his chest with every breath.

She could do this more often.

The movie is nice too, just as anthropologically interesting as he said it would be. It’s nice to see regular humans in a non-military context, to get an idea of what her life might look like after. She asks about the things that don’t make sense to her, and one of the paladins will reply, sometimes Bellamy, sometimes someone else, and it’s illuminating.

It becomes a weekly ritual, and one of her favorite parts of the week. Not least because she always gets to wrap herself around Bellamy.

Maybe they’re right about physical contact.

“What’s that thing they keep doing?” she asks, on their fifth movie night. As physical contact goes, it looks–odd.

Bellamy shifts under her. “Which thing?”

“With their faces.”

Miller snorts. “Kissing.”

“Oh,” says Bellamy. He rubs the back of his neck, and then settles back. “Yeah, that’s–kissing. It’s a gesture of physical affection, I guess. It can be friendly, familial, or romantic, depending on, uh–how and where you do it. Kissing is just the act of pressing your lips against something. On the cheek or the forehead, it’s not romantic, but when it’s lip-to-lip like that, it’s basically always romantic. Especially when it goes on that long.”

“First step of the mating process,” Raven adds.

“Base,” says Monty. “First _base_.”

Clarke raises her eyebrows at Bellamy, and his face reddens. “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “Human romance.”

“Huh,” she says, and settles back in, watching. “Is it fun?”

“I think so. What do you guys do for romance?”

“It’s difficult to explain without knowing about our anatomy,” she says. Bellamy’s seen her in her own natural form, but she doubts he really remembers. She changed shape to match them almost as soon as she’d met them. “But we don’t have a lot of physical stages before actual coitus. Humans are more physically affectionate than we are.”

“You seem to be doing just fine with it,” Miller says, mild, and she knows him well enough to read the teasing tone, so she smiles.

“It’s not all bad.”

The next week, they come back from a hard mission, and the relief of seeing the five of them, alive and well, is so profound that she nearly sags with it.

A week later, the mission isn’t quite so dangerous, but the relief is just as great, she grabs the front of Bellamy’s flight suit and pulls him down, lips against his, firm. It’s not as instantly rewarding as cuddling, but he’s also stiff and tense, instead of relaxed and holding her.

“What was that for?” he asks, voice rough, when she lets him go.

“Half the movies we watch show someone coming home and getting kissed. You came home, so you get kissed.”

“Okay,” he says, careful. “What kind of kiss?”

It hits her suddenly: he’s _nervous_. She grins. “Lip-to-lip,” she says. “Romantic. You told me.”

“Good,” he says, and then his hand is sliding into her hair and he’s kissing her again, with much more skill and confidence than she had, and now she gets it. His lips coax hers apart, and his tongue slides against hers, and all she wants to do is press into him forever. She doesn’t think it’s possible to be close enough to him.

“We don’t make out in front of you!” Miller says, and Bellamy laughs against her lips and then pulls back, still grinning. She loves his smile, and she never would have gotten to see it, if she hadn’t been put in the suspended sleep.

That’s something.

“Shut up!”

“Make out?”

“Kissing with tongue,” he says. “It’s, uh–generally more intimate.”

“Oh.” She settles against his chest. “I liked it.”

“Me too.” He takes her hand and tugs her toward his quarters. “I don’t know what else you’ll like. I know you can look like a human, but I don’t know about–anything else.”

“But we could try it out, right? I can experience sexual gratification in this form alone, so I can with you too. That seems achievable, right?”

He laughs, kisses her again once they’re alone and in private. “Yeah, that’s me. All about achievable goals. Save the universe, get the girl.”

It doesn’t sound hard at all, when he says it. She can’t wait.


	20. Seasonally Appropriate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [not-really-real-at-all](http://not-really-real-at-all.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: Bellarke - gingerbread vs sugar cookies

Bellamy knows that he and Clarke have this _thing_.

Or, well, they have a lot of things. He recognizes that they’re generally a disaster, even now that they’ve become friends. But one of their biggest and most persistent things is that they can turn anything–absolutely anything–into a stupid rivalry. They don’t even _try_ ; it just comes naturally to them. They’re inherently competitive people. Bellamy has something of a flair for drama, and Clarke is stubborn and refuses to cede ground in any argument, so minor disagreements become (friendly) epic feuds.

Everyone’s favorite of those, by far, is the Christmas Cookie Contest.

It started innocently enough. The first year after Octavia and Clarke graduated from college, Clarke was fighting with her mother, and therefore stayed in her and O’s apartment for the holidays, instead of going home. O was thrilled, of course; O loves every part of the holidays, and the more people she can share them with, the better.

Bellamy was still in the denial stage of his crush on Clarke, so he told himself he was annoyed about having so rich, privileged kid who was pissed her mom wasn’t giving her enough allowance sticking around for a family holiday.

Even at the time, he wasn’t particularly convinced.

The cookies thing happened when O was divvying up responsibilities, and Clarke said she’d make gingerbread.

“Jesus, why?” he asked, and O elbowed him.

“What?” Clarke demanded.

“Does anyone actually like gingerbread? It’s not a food, it’s a building material. That doesn’t count as a dessert.”

“Any good gingerbread house is a decoration and a dessert. Don’t blame me just because you’ve only had shitty gingerbread in your life.”

“I’m just going to blame you if we only have inferior cookies for Christmas.”

“Okay, fine,” Clarke said. He could see the amusement in her eye, and it did bad things to his heart rate. “What’s the superior cookie?”

“Sugar cookies.”

“ _Sugar cookies_?” She sounded genuinely horrified.

“What’s wrong with sugar cookies?”

“Nothing. They’re completely inoffensive. But I can’t believe you’re getting all huffy about gingerbread and your counterargument is _sugar cookies_. That’s the most boring cookie ever.”

“You’re eating the wrong sugar cookies, princess.”

“And you’re–”

“Soooooo,” said Octavia, drawing out the word and pulling their attention away from each other. “Clarke, you’re making gingerbread, and Bell, you’re making sugar cookies?”

“Sounds good to me,” Bellamy said. “Clarke’s been missing out.”

“And Bellamy’s taste buds have probably died of boredom,” she said. “I should try to resurrect them.”

Of course, the gingerbread was actually pretty good–nothing like the store-bought gingerbread cottages that had disappointed him when he was a kid–and Clarke had like five of the sugar cookies, and then stole a few more, but neither of them actually admitted defeat. Just because both desserts were good, it didn’t mean one wasn’t _better_. And the better one was obviously _his_ , even if Clarke was too stubborn to say so.

The next year, Clarke told him they’d better come up with a rubric, so their friends would be able to vote with a metric to guide them, and they spent two days arguing over that. It’s now a standard, cherished part of the Christmas season: Bellamy makes sugar cookies, Clarke makes gingerbread, and their friends vote on which is better.

Neither he nor Clarke has ever won twice in a row, and he’s pretty sure their friends are rigging it. Just so neither of them can ever _decisively_ win.

But the thing is, it’s been six years. And they’ve been good years. Happy ones. Bellamy’s dated a few people, and so has Clarke, but he’s been single by every Christmas, and he’s kind of sick of it. Of his feelings for her simmering in the back of his mind, and never doing anything about it.

He’s sick of wanting Clarke Griffin and not knowing if he could get her.

Shopping for her is always one of the worst parts of Christmas. He always ends up finding something good, but every year, he’s convinced this is the year he _won’t_. He ends up buying her presents as early as four months before the actual holiday, just because he’ll be so relieved to see something he thinks she’ll like.

This year, though, he’s going to do something _special_.

“You know you could just ask her out, right?” Miller says. “The whole huge romantic gesture thing is really awkward if it doesn’t go well.”

“I know. But–we’ve been friends for fucking seven years. I can’t just ask her out.”

“Yeah, you really could.”

“I don’t want to.” He runs his hand through his hair. “I want it to be special, okay? And–I think she’ll like it. I know her pretty well.”

“I’m just saying, if this blows up in your face, I’m the one you’re going to cry on.”

“You’re always the one I cry on.” He sighs. “Go big or go home, right?”

“Yeah. And you know I think Clarke’s into you. I just want you to remember that _go home_ is an option here. She might say no. Even if you’re really fucking charming about asking her out.”

“Dude, come on. You know me. I’ve imagined every worst case scenario here.”

“Yeah, that’s true. Good luck, then.”

“Thanks.”

It takes him a good week of planning and preparation, between baking and constructing and still having a job and non-culinary obligations to attend to. For some reason, calling in sick for an elaborate love confession is frowned upon.

But once he’s done, he thinks–even if it doesn’t work, Clarke’s going to like it. She’ll take it in the spirit it was meant.

Which doesn’t mean he isn’t nervous. He’s nervous as fuck. But he’s _sure_ , and that’s a much more important feeling.

Clarke opens the door looking a little frazzled, hair escaping from her braid in wisps, flour on her nose.

“Hi,” she says. “You’re early.”

“Sorry. I was, uh–sorry.”

“It’s okay. I was just planning to shower or something.”

“I really don’t care.”

“Uh huh. I know what it is. You want to see what I’ve got for the cookie competition this year.”

He has to smile. “Yeah. I definitely knew you were going to be cooking. By magic.”

“Shut up and come in.” She frowns at the box in his hands. “What’s that?”

“Surprise.”

“I hope it’s Thai food. I’m starving.”

“Yeah, uh–not Thai food. Sorry.”

Clarke squints at him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. You should finish baking. I don’t want to win this year on a technicality.”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine. Make yourself useful and order us something to eat, okay? I’ll be done in a minute.”

Given her laser focus on the takeout, he prioritizes that, and it’s not until the order is in that he lets himself work on his _real_ project.

He really hopes she doesn’t hate it. He can’t get all the way to believing she might _like it_ , but he’ll settle for her not hating it. He likes his odds a lot more there.

When she comes back in fifteen minutes later, he’s sitting on the couch, playing on his phone, looking as casual as he possibly can. It’s taking a lot of effort.

He doesn’t let himself look up as she takes in the scene. That takes even more effort.

He’s never actually tried to work with gingerbread before, especially not gingerbread he made himself. It was more fun than he expected it would be, and came out pretty well, if he does say so himself.

Clarke’s quiet, but it’s a quality of silence he can’t be nervous about, not yet. He was expecting her to take some time; that’s how she is.

Finally, she sits down next to him on the couch and says, “That’s a pretty good version of your house. What did you use for the trees?”

“Meringue and green food coloring.”

“It’s cute.” There’s another pause, and then she says, “I feel like I’m missing something.”

“Yeah. The roof comes off.”

Her mouth twitches. “Yeah, that was what I was missing.” But she does lean forward to pull the roof off, and he watches the puzzlement play across her face as she takes it in.

The little gingerbread house is obviously his, and the two sugar cookie people inside are obviously meant to be himself and Clarke, holding hands. It’s–

Okay, it’s cheesy and kind of silly and definitely looks like he stole it from a shitty Christmas movie. But that’s really just a coincidence.

It still feels like it works for _them_.

Clarke reaches in, deliberate, takes out the Bellamy cookie, and bites its head off. Which really shouldn’t be a huge relief, but he can’t help a laugh of delight.

“Wow. That bad?”

“I love your sugar cookies,” she says. “Is this your giving up on the cookie contest? Are you acknowledging we’re both good?”

“We are both good. But that wasn’t really what I was going for.”

To his profound relief, Clarke grins, puts the Bellamy cookie back in the gingerbread house, and shifts closer. “So, the other one.”

“The other one?”

“Incredibly dorky and over-dramatic love confession.”

“I was going for sappy and seasonally-appropriate love confession.” He leans in and bumps his nose against hers, making her laugh. Mostly, he’s pretty sure, from sheer delight.

It’s going _so fucking well_.

“I think we’ve been looking at this all wrong,” he says. “Gingerbread and sugar cookies work really well together. It doesn’t have to be an either/or thing.”

“Yeah, that was really sappy and seasonally-appropriate.” Her hand threads in his hair, and she tugs him down. He can taste the sugar on her lips, and he keeps kissing her until he can’t anymore, until all there is is her.

The doorbell finally jostles them apart, and she has to tug her shirt back on to go and get their food.

He’s still grinning when she settles back next to him.

“So, this isn’t you formally conceding in the cookie contest,” she says, bumping her shoulder against his.

“No way. I’m going to crush you.”

She presses her lips against his shoulder, then unloads the food. “Good. I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

It’s a fucking Christmas miracle. “Yeah. Neither would I.”


	21. Minty - There's a Flame, There's a Spark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [pawabowa](http://pawabowa.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: minty, fake dating please!

“So,” says Miller, dropping onto the couch next to Monty without warning. “I need a favor.”

Monty blinks. He’s a little sleepy and full of general contentment after Bellamy and Clarke’s annual Thanksgiving celebration, and he hadn’t been planning on thinking for the next few hours. If then.

“A favor?” he asks.

“Yeah. My stupid work Christmas party.”

Monty hasn’t had that much to drink, but he still feels like alcohol must be affecting his understanding. Because he really does not get where this conversation is heading. He barely understands where this conversation started.

“Your Christmas party?”

“My boss still thinks I’ve got a boyfriend.”

Honestly, up until tonight, Monty had thought the same thing. Miller is primarily Bellamy’s friend, while Monty is primarily Clarke’s, and so Monty only gets to catch up with Miller at crossover group events. Which went through a dramatic increase after Bellamy and Clarke got married, and then decreased again once they had a baby. So this is their first time seeing each other since the Fourth of July, and on the Fourth of July, Miller was definitely taken.

Not that Miller’s relationship status is something that Monty carefully monitors or anything, but he had made a note of it, with some disappointment. Just for his own personal records.

“I’m not really following what you want here,” Monty tells Miller, in the interest of full disclosure. “Sorry your boss doesn’t know you guys broke up? That sounds awkward? What’s the favor, exactly?”

“I need a date to the party.”

Monty’s mouth reacts before his brain does, as usual. “Is that really less awkward than just telling your boss you’re single? Is this one of those weird movie situations where your promotion depends on you having a functional relationship because of your company’s opinions on family values?”

Miller lets out a low huff of laughter. “Wow, you had that one all ready, huh?”

“It’s surprisingly common in movies.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Seriously, I need more information about this.”

“My boss is one of those–” He rolls his eyes “She’s a nice woman who’s really excited about diversity. So she’s really proud of having a gay, black employee, and she wants our investors to meet me and my boyfriend. It’s kind of awkward, but whatever. There are way worse things for your boss to be into, right?”

“Sure.” He pauses, replays the conversation. “So, what does this have to do with me?”

“I was hoping you’d be my date.”

“Why?” asks his mouth, but it’s not like his brain isn’t thinking that too. Miller is _Miller_. He’s got to have–well, okay. Monty doesn’t know exactly what anyone’s prospects for fake holiday dates looks like, but if anyone had a lot of them, it seems like it would be Miller. Miller has to be spoiled for choice with dates.

Okay, so, fine. He’s kind of sarcastic and taciturn, and Monty thought that he hated him for a solid six months after they met, until Bellamy got drunk and explained that Miller loves everyone _so much_ but doesn’t know how to express it, which was mostly just Bellamy being drunk and talking shit, but it did get Monty to examine Miller more. Not that he needed the encouragement, given Miller was hot and gay and totally his type, but he watched him in a new way, and then he started noticing things. Miller and Bellamy both have that haughty attitude that’s hiding a soft, nougaty center. And that was definitely the end for Monty, with the whole feelings thing. Once he figured out that Miller liked all of them, generally, and seemed to like Monty specifically, it was impossible to pretend he didn’t have a crush.

A hopeless crush, he’d assumed. Once he found out Miller had a boyfriend.

“Way fewer lies than if I ask Bellamy,” says Miller, with a shrug. “Plus, he can’t go ten minutes without pulling out baby pictures and bragging about Clarke. You’re bi, and my boss will like you. And she’d believe it.”

“Believe what?”

“That you’re my boyfriend.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, you’re my type.”

It’s incomprehensible to Monty that people can just _say_ shit like that. And Miller is so casual about it, like this is both common knowledge and no big deal. Monty still doesn’t like admitting who his high-school crushes were, out of lingering embarrassment and mild paranoia.

Also, _he’s Miller’s type_. How is _he_ Miller’s type? What does that even mean?

“What’s your type and why does your boss know?” he asks. It’s a valid question, and one that he’d probably ask even if he had no personal interest in what Nathan Miller’s type was.

“Nerdy, and she knows because I’m a nerd.”

“I’d be offended if you hadn’t said you were a nerd too.”

“Takes one to know one,” says Miller. “So, will you?”

“Will I?”

“Come to this party with me. If you won’t be my fake boyfriend, I’ve gotta go to Craigslist.”

“Can’t have that, yeah,” says Monty. It’s reflexive, but also basically accurate. He isn’t going to let some random Craigslist dude be Miller’s fake date. Not on his watch. “When is it? Where is it? Dress code?”

“The twenty-third, some hotel. I’ll text you the details.” He gives Monty a small, genuine smile. It’s a lot to take in, honestly. Miller’s expressions always have an edge. “Seriously, thanks. I really appreciate it.”

“No problem,” says Monty. “Any time.”

*

Miller comes to pick him up, and it feels disconcertingly like prom. It’s good Jasper isn’t around, or he would absolutely be giving Miller a lecture about intentions and shit. He’s been bad enough with just Monty; it’s just as well he doesn’t have the opportunity to interact with Miller much.

He takes a few deep breaths before he opens the door and it’s still not sufficient preparation. Miller is all crisp lines, perfectly ironed suit and a red tie that manages to feel seasonally appropriate without being cheesy.

Monty looks good in his suit, of course. He’s come a long way since his actual prom, in terms of both physical appearance and learning to dress himself. But Miller is _so hot_.

“Hey,” says Miller, casual, like Monty’s whole brain isn’t crying. “Thanks again for doing this for me. You look really good,” he adds.

He really should telegraph his compliments, so Monty can properly appreciate them.

“Thanks, you too. And you don’t have to thank me. I don’t mind going to a fancy Christmas party with a bunch of strangers I’m lying to. You shouldn’t feel bad at all.”

Miller snorts. “I’ll get you pizza next week. To make up for it.”

“It’s the least you can do. If you’re opposed to monetary compensation.”

“Friends don’t pay friends for fake dates,” says Miller. “I don’t want to make you feel cheap.”

“That would depend on how much you payed me.”

They go back and forth on Monty’s rates as a fake boyfriend on the way to the car, and by the time they’re on their way, Monty has evened out a little. He does _like_ Miller. His attraction isn’t just physical. He’d be so much less of a wreck if it was. But it helps too, because just spending time with him is a lot of fun.

“Oh, hey,” Miller says, into a lull in the conversation. “You should probably call me Nate.”

Monty always knew Miller had a first name, and if he worked at it, he might have remembered what it was. But _no one_ calls him Nate.

“Really?”

“Bellamy calls me Miller, so you guys call me Miller,” he says. “My coworkers call me Nate. They’d probably think it was weird if you didn’t.”

“Nate,” says Monty. And then he feels weird, so he adds, “No pet names?”

Miller–Nate–snorts. “I’ll trust your judgement.”

“Oh, wow, that’s a terrible idea,” says Monty. “I’m going to come up with something really bad. Pookie? Schnookums? Love strudel?”

“Perfect. Go with that.”

They talk backstory until they get to the party, and Monty figures out how to relax as they go. A night out with Nate is awesome; they get along, they have similar senses of humor, and it’s great to just hang out with him. It’s exactly what he always vaguely wished he’d get with Nate, something surprisingly like a _real_ date, except that they’re lying about their relationship at an office party.

Aside from that, everything is pretty awesome.

Then Nate rests his hand on the small of Monty’s back, guiding him in with a casual intimacy that makes Monty’s stupid heart race.

This is a _fake date_. These are _fake feelings_. He needs to get it together.

“Come on, let’s see the boss first. She’s really excited to meet you.”

“Don’t you feel even a little bad about this?”

“Nope,” says Nate. “Not even a little.”

“Just checking.”

Nate’s boss is bright, friendly woman, and she’s just as excited to meet Monty as Nate said she would be. He’d feel a little bad, except their story is largely true. They met through mutual friends, and Monty _was_ dating someone at the time. And, from Monty’s perspective, they were kind of dancing around each other as they had other relationships. But it’s weird to hear Nate telling other people that, sounding genuine.

It’s weird to have Nate’s arm around him, all this casual contact, and Nate’s full attention on him.

Honestly, this is all he wants for Christmas. It’s more than a little sad, probably.

“You doing okay?” Nate murmurs, low, after about an hour. “I know it’s a lot. But you’re knocking it out of the park. Everyone loves you.”

“I had no idea there were entire companies full of snarky assholes who like _Game of Thrones_ ,” Monty says. “Are you hiring? What do I have to do to get in on this?”

“We have company outings every few months, so you could just tag along.”

Monty glances at him. “Yeah, that wouldn’t be weird at all.”

“It wouldn’t have to be weird,” says Nate. He takes a deliberate sip of wine, watching the people mingling instead of Monty. “Everyone’s going to be really disappointed if I say we broke up now. Probably easier if we didn’t.”

Monty nearly chokes. “Wait. Was this actually–was this you trying to ask me out?”

“No.” He turns to Monty, gives him a wry smile. “Me trying to ask you out was totally fucking pathetic. This was me actually getting it done. Sort of.”

“Sort of,” Monty echoes. He clears his throat, manages something _approaching_ cool. Not that close, of course. But somewhere in the same area code as cool. “You really want to date me?”

The _really_ was a mistake, but aside from that, it went pretty well.

“I did say you’re my type.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I know this isn’t really–I should have just asked. But I never see you, and I couldn’t figure out how.”

“So you came up with this?”

Nate snorts and rolls his eyes. “No way. Bellamy came up with this.”

“That actually explains a lot.” He worries his lip, but Nate’s basically _confessing_ here. He doesn’t need to be nervous. “So, this is a date.”

“It can be. And then another when I buy you pizza. And we go from there.”

“Can I still call you pookie?”

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.” He leans in, but stops just before the kiss, which is just _unfair_. “So, that’s a yes, right?”

“That’s a yes,” Monty confirms, and closes the distance himself.

They kiss for long enough that Nate’s coworkers start jeering, and Nate takes it with his usual grace, which is a surly glare and the finger to the room at large.

Monty assumes he looks happy enough for both of them. It’s something he’s going to have to get used to, being the cheerful one in the relationship.

He’s so ready. Honestly, he can’t wait.


	22. omoi ga subete wo kaete yuku yo (kitto) - Clarke POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [sweetiepie1019](http://sweetiepie1019.tumblr.com/)! Original fic [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6128200).

In a way, Clarke’s always felt like a chosen one. She knows exactly how lucky she is: a rich, white girl who works as a model and has everything she could ever want. And she knows how stupid most of her problems sound, when she thinks about talking about them. People like her for the wrong reasons: big fucking deal.

It’s just–her parents aren’t around much, she doesn’t feel like she fits in at school, and she likes modeling, but sometimes she’s just _tired_. It feels like no one ever just sees _her_.

She knows other people have it worse than she does. She knows these are problems she’s lucky to have. But she can’t make the jump from knowing that to feeling happy, and that just makes her feel worse.

Which is why being an actual, literal chosen one is so nice.

Obviously it’s just weird at first, because some sort of magical talking toy cat comes and tells her she needs to help save the world, and she’s sure she’s having some kind of psychotic break or something. The pressure of high school and modeling and her parents never being around has gotten to be too much, and she’s finally lost it.

But she has been hearing about this new vigilante, some guy who goes by Bumblebee, and that makes it easier to believe that she could do the same thing.

And it’s _good_. Clarke likes helping people, and likes it better without getting credit for it. Which is maybe weird, but–anonymity is _awesome_.

It’s maybe a little fucked up how great Bumblebee is, as a part of that anonymity, but it doesn’t actually _surprise_ Clarke. No one ever cares about her, just her, as an independent entity. It’s always about her family, her career, the things she can do for them.

So it’s nice, to not be Clarke Griffin for a while. It’s nice to feel as if she’s earned someone’s respect, instead of getting it just by existing. And, okay, she hasn’t really earned it _yet_ , but she feels confident that she will. And that will just make it even more rewarding, when he finally does start liking her.

The crush is–okay, the crush is stupid. She doesn’t even know what he looks like, and he’s kind of an asshole. But he’s the good kind of asshole, the kind of cares about people and protects people and is fun to hang out with. The kind who is weirdly invested in anime, for some reason.

It would honestly be great, if not for Bellamy.

Bellamy feels like the most obvious part of the whole thing, the cliche she’s sure Bumblebee would tell her is in every anime, if she just asked him. The cute classmate with a crush, the one she’d obviously end up on the show with because that’s how those stories work. Girls always realize that the celebrity or the superhero really isn’t as great as the dorky friend who’s been there all along.

Which is really unfair to Bellamy, honestly. He’s a nice guy, but not a _nice guy_ , not in the bad way. She hadn’t really known him before this year, but she’d seen him around, and had an undefined but good impression of him. But she still can’t help being a little suspicious when he’s _friendly_ , even if it’s about his sister.

And she’s sure he has a thing for her, which really isn’t his fault. He doesn’t seem to have the _bad_ kind of crush on her. He doesn’t seem to care that she’s a model, doesn’t hit on her in any gross ways. His primary interest seems to be in being _friends_.

Which is why he makes her feel guilty instead of annoyed, for the most part.

But when she shows up at a store she doesn’t even know is his before they open, he lets her in, fixes her sweater, and lets her hang out all afternoon, and it’s hard to be resentful about a guy like that. If she told him she wasn’t interested, she’s pretty sure he’d keep on wanting to be friends. And that’s a comfort.

So she really is an asshole for _wincing_ when he says, “What are you doing tonight?”

He definitely notices, but she actually _does_ have plans. She puts on an apologetic smile. “Family stuff. Why?”

“There’s a B-movie marathon at the Twelfth Street Cinema,” he says. It’s very casual. “Raven and Miller and I are going. Thought you might be interested.”

Honestly, it sounds fun, and she feels bad for lying to him. But it’s not like she can _say_ she’s going on patrol. “I would be. But I’ve got this shoot and then a dinner thing with my mom.”

“Maybe next time,” he says, and it’s so completely genuine that Clarke really _wants_ to go.

Friends. Friends would be nice.

She really thinks that, right up until Monroe says, “Take a left,” that night.

Clarke looks down Twelfth Street. “Left?”

“Sorry, did you _not_ want to destroy the darkness? You don’t have to. We can take a break.”

“Is Bumblebee’s guardian this much of an asshole?”

“Nope. You got lucky. She’s very boring.”

“Very lucky,” Clarke agrees. “Please tell me we’re not going to the theater.”

“Is that the theater?” Monroe asks, looking over at it.

“Yeah.”

“That’s where it is.”

The biggest surprise is the sharp burst of visceral fear that it’s _Bellamy_ , that he’s hurt or possessed or in trouble. He was so helpful today, made her feel so normal, and if anything happened to him–

The sight of him hiding behind the row of seats with Raven is such a relief she nearly staggers. Granted, that means the monster is probably _Miller_ , but at least it’s not him.

She’s not going to think about that too much.

The Miller monster throws three seats at them, and Bellamy and Raven cover their heads. It’s enough to kick Clarke into high gear, reminding her that she has a job to do. Raven sees her first, pulls out her camera and snaps a picture. Bellamy follows her line of sight and elbows her.

“Seriously?” he hisses, just loud enough she can hear. They’re not good at indoor voices.

“What?” asks Raven “She’s good, she’ll get Miller back.” She waves, and Clarke hesitates for a minute before she goes over. They’re not going to recognize her, she’s sure. But it’s still _weird_.

“Yes?” she snaps, when neither of them says anything. She still doesn’t feel great at doing this _alone_ ; it’s easier when she’s with Bumblebee. And doing it in front of people she knows feels like a lot more pressure.

“That’s our friend,” says Raven. “Can we help?”

“No. The best thing you two can do is lay low and stay out of my way.”

“Got it,” says Bellamy, instantly, taking Raven’s arm and pulling her further out of the way. “Thanks.”

“I wanted to talk to her!” Raven protests, and Clarke turns her attention to the fight. The monster possessing Miller is large and angry, like they always are, and she can’t get a good line of sight on the jewel she needs to destroy in its chest. She jumps from seat to seat, trying to avoid its wild punches, but one catches her, and she crashes into a seat near Bellamy and Raven just in time to overhear them _gossiping_. About _her_.

This night can’t get worse, right? It better not get worse.

“I actually asked her to come tonight, probably good she was busy,” Bellamy is saying. “Girls don’t like when they get turned into monsters, right?”

Raven snorts. “That sounds like an awesome first date to me.”

“It wouldn’t have been a date, and there’s something wrong with you, so you don’t count. You okay?” she hears, and she realizes he’s asking _her_.

Right, she has a job. She can’t just listen in about how Bellamy really _does_ like her and was actually kind of ineptly flirting. Which is just as well. It’s not a good thing to think about. “Yeah, I’m good. I got this.”

He offers to help with the scrape on her leg when she’s done, all apparently genuine concern, and she thinks it’s exactly what he’d say if it were _her_ who was hurt. Maybe it’s because Lioness is a bit of a celebrity too, in her way, just like Clarke Griffin is, but, honestly, it seems far more likely that he’s just that kind of guy. He likes taking care of people. He worries.

That’s why she texts him, once she’s done, and that’s why she keeps on texting him, just whenever she thinks of anything she wants him to know. He’s a friend, for sure.

It’s nice, having one. It doesn’t have to be complicated, just because he has a crush.

It’s not a big deal at all. They’ll get past it.

*

“Do you ever eat?”

Clarke blinks, startling out of her concentration. “What?”

Bellamy sits down next to her, offers her half a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It’s one of those wholesome, stereotypical lunches that she doesn’t associate with real people. “You know lunch is for eating, not drawing, right?”

“You know you’re kind of a mother hen, right?”

He shrugs, apparently not put off. “I’m an older brother,” he says, and winces.

Clarke takes a bite of the sandwich so her smile won’t embarrass him. It’s–weird. She’s never actually _liked_ someone who has a crush on her before, and she honestly wishes she didn’t. Because she’s not _interested_ in him. And some part of her continues to be convinced that she _should_ like him. And then she feels like it’s just societal programming that makes her believe a nice guy who’s interested in her deserves her affection.

Really, though, it’s that he’s a nice guy she actually _knows_. In a world without Bumblebee, she’d definitely be into Bellamy, and that knowledge makes her guilty, irrationally so. When she was dating Lexa, she knew there were people she’d be interested in, if she wasn’t taken. It’s _normal_.

But she’s feeling a little antsy about Bumblebee, if she’s honest. Lexa got possessed over the weekend, and it was–it wasn’t a _letdown_ , seeing Bumblebee as herself. But he was nice to her, in a way he isn’t nice to her when she’s Lioness, and it made her wonder what would happen, if she told him who she was. He might have heard of her. It might change things, and she doesn’t want things to change with Bumblebee. She wants it to be exactly like it is, but with kissing. And that’s impossible, as long as she’s Clarke Griffin.

“You busy after school today?” Bellamy asks, pulling her from her thoughts.

“What?”

“Miller’s trying to see Monty in a non-stalking capacity, so he’s organizing a study session at the library. You want to come?”

“Non-stalking capacity?” she asks. She knows that Miller, Raven, Monty, and occasionally Bellamy track her and Bumblebee, but this is the first time he’s actually mentioned it to her. She sort of thought he was embarrassed. “Who’s he stalking?”

“You know Raven’s really into Lioness and Bumblebee. We’ve upgraded to stalking. But apparently that’s not enough to sate Miller’s crush.”

“Thirst,” Clarke says. “The kids are calling that _being thirsty_.”

“Thanks for the slang update.”

“How come I don’t get to come stalking?” she asks.

“You want to?”

“I like to be included.”

He snorts. “Uh huh. I can tell by the way you _always have plans_.”

His tone is so obviously teasing that she can’t even bristle. “Okay, I like to be asked.”

“So you can turn us down. Such a fucking diva.”

“Basically.”

“I’ll tell you next time we’re stalking, fine. Eat the sandwich and tell me you’re not coming to hang out after school.”

Normal friends. She can have normal friends. She _wants_ to have normal friends. She’s not patrolling today, and Bumblebee is on-call if something happens. She doesn’t have work, and her mom won’t even notice if she’s late coming home.

“Where?” she asks.

“Nyko’s Coffee on Third. But we’re just meeting at Miller’s locker.”

“Cool. I’ll be there.”

“Really?”

She takes a bite of sandwich. “No, I’m just getting your hopes up. I’m definitely not going to show up.”

“Sounds right. I won’t see you there.”

“Looking forward to it.”

*

It’s a nice afternoon, and she’s in a good mood all through school the next day, and even through an annoying photoshoot after. In fact, she’s in a good mood right up until Bumblebee tells her he ran into the girl he likes while he was patrolling.

This is what she gets for running late. She missed out on _Bumblebee’s crush_.

Also, Bumblebee has a crush and everything sucks.

“You’ve got a crush on a girl?” she asks, trying to keep her voice light. He’s seventeen. Most seventeen-year-olds she knows have feelings of some kind. She just–sort of hoped he didn’t. Or had them for her.

“Yeah.” He smirks.“ I know I watch a lot of magical girl anime for a straight guy, but I am still straight.”

It’s not really what she meant to be asking, but she’s not convinced she _should_ ask. But, really, she can’t help herself. She’s kind of a masochist. “What’s she like?”

He looks surprised by the question, but apparently he doesn’t mind answering. “Smart. Sarcastic. Doesn’t take any shit. Kind of–grumpy a lot, not great with people. Tired.”

If someone had asked Clarke what Bumblebee liked in a girl, she wouldn’t have come up with that, but–it’s kind of adorable. The kind of adorable that’s terrible for her mental well-being, because he’s not saying she’s pretty or hot or anything like that. Clarke assumes she _is_ , but if he was just trying to impress her with his non-shallowness, he’d probably have a less weird list of favorite qualities.

It’s one of those situations where she kind of wants to laugh and cry, but laughing is definitely the right call. He looks a little offended, and she grins. “That’s what you’re into? One of her top character traits is tired?”

He scrubs his hand over his face. Like every time, she hopes he’ll push his cowl off by accident, but he never does. “In a–I like taking care of people, okay?”

It reminds her of Bellamy, but she doesn’t want to think about him. “Of course you do. You’re a superhero.”

“Not, like–that’s protecting people.” He smiles a little, this small, fond smile that makes jealousy spike in her gut. Which is stupid,but–Bumblebee is _actually_ exactly the kind of guy she wants to date. She was _right_. “I’m sure she can look out for herself. But I like, I dunno. I like her. Obviously she’s smart and fun to hang out with and attractive, but I like reminding her she can’t work through lunch every day and making sure she got enough sleep and isn’t elevating her blood pressure yelling at assholes.” He pauses. “This is just getting worse, right? Fuck. I like her. I want to make sure she’s happy. I don’t think anyone else is, so–yeah.”

“That’s actually really sweet,” she says, and hopes it doesn’t sound as wistful as it feels.

“Thanks. If you know any good ways to turn that into something I can actually say to her without getting my ass kicked, let me know.”

She shrugs. “I’d just ask her on a date if I were you.”

“I really don’t think she’s interested.”

Offering to go and kick Bumblebee’s crush’s ass would be several steps beyond awkward, so she doesn’t, but she can’t keep the edge out of her voice when she says, “She doesn’t know what she’s missing.”

He huffs a small laugh. “Neither do you.”

She bumps his shoulder. “What, you don’t think we know each other by now?”

If he hadn’t just been talking about the girl he’s into–the girl who _isn’t her_ –then watching the way his face softens as he thinks it over would be really pretty great. As it is, it just makes her heart ache. “Okay, yeah. You know.”

She pastes on a smile.“So if we ever run into this girl, I’ll totally talk you up.”

“Thanks.” There’s a slightly awkward pause, and then he coughs and says, “What about you? Boyfriend? Girlfriend?”

It’s the first time she’s said it, but it’s not _hard_. It’s not like she really thought she had a chance with him, after all. They don’t even know each other’s names. “There’s a guy I like, but same deal. He’s into someone else.”

It doesn’t even hurt that much.

Bumblebee gives her shoulder a firm squeeze. “Well, he doesn’t know what he’s missing either.”

Her laugh is probably just a little bit too loud, but she thinks it’s not really her fault. “You can’t just steal my line. But yeah, you’re right. He definitely has no idea.”

When they’re done with patrol, she goes home and spends longer than she should staring at Bellamy’s number in her phone. She could call him. He’d come over. They could make out, and she’d enjoy it, while it was happening.

But she would be the biggest asshole in the entire world, to do that to him.

_Have you done the calc homework?_ she asks him instead. She wants to talk to _someone_. And it would be weird, to talk to Bumblebee.

_I’m hoping that if I pretend it doesn’t exist, it’ll actually stop existing_ , he replies.

_Yeah, that checks out. Let’s all do that._

_Hey, that’s my justification for procrastinating. Get your own._

It doesn’t make the hurt go away. But it does _help_. She can see a future where she gets over Bumblebee, and if Bellamy hasn’t given up on her by then, if she can be fair to him, that would be–

It would be really nice.

_Nope, stealing yours. You can’t stop me._

_See if I ever tell you anything again_ , he says, and she manages to fall asleep with a smile.

*

In retrospect, she thinks she should have put it together then and there. It was only a few days after she saw him at the studio. It was literally the day after he brought her a sandwich during lunch because he thought she wasn’t eating enough. And she’d think, sometimes, about the things they had in _common_ , how liking Bellamy really wouldn’t be that different from liking Bumblebee.

She’d like to say it’s because the one thing Bumblebee ever told her about himself was that his name didn’t start with B, but that wasn’t really a factor. She just–honestly, she thought if she met him in real life, she’d just _know_.

Instead, she says that she’s seen him, when she’s not in costume, and he says, “Yeah. I’ve seen you too,” totally casual.

It had never even occurred to her. “Really?”

“Yeah.” His smile is teasing. “You saved me.”

She slumps against the wall. “Holy shit.”

“What? You’ve seen me, why couldn’t I see you? It’s not like it’s a huge city.”

When she laughs, it feels very far away. Like it’s someone else doing it. “Sorry, I’m just reviewing everyone I’ve ever seen in costume when I’m not with you. I can’t believe I saw you. Did we talk?”

“Yeah,” he says. He still sounds kind of confused, like he _doesn’t_ think this is a huge deal.

Of course, he doesn’t have a crush on her. That makes a big difference. But she doesn’t know how to let it go.

“Fuck.” She laughs, short and shocked. “I thought I’d know, honestly.”

“Because of our BFF connection?”

“Asshole,” she says, without any bite. “God, I can’t believe it. Why aren’t you more upset about this?”

He frowns. “Upset about what?”

“You saw me out of costume too. It doesn’t bother you that you didn’t recognize me?”

“Did we talk a lot?”

“Not a ton, but–” She can’t look at him. “I wanted you to like me.”

She doesn’t _have_ to look at him. His grin is clear in his voice. “Oh, so were you one of those totally embarrassing fangirls? Like, so into me?”

She shoves him. “Do you get that a lot?”

“All the time. Again, I’ve got this sexy bee thing going. It’s a real popular fetish thing.”

Later, she won’t know why that was _it_. But suddenly, she knew. She was going to tell him who she was. It was going to happen. “What color is your hair?” she asks.

“Huh?”

“Your hair. What color is it?”

For a second, she thinks he won’t answer. “Black. You?”

“Blonde. Eyes?”

“Brown.”

“Blue.” She takes a deep breath. “Name? I know it doesn’t start with B.”

The silence stretches, and then he admits, “It does, actually.”

That should be the moment, but it isn’t. Mostly it’s kind of funny. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

She elbows him. “So, the only thing you ever told me about yourself, and you lied.”

“I’m a dick, yeah.”

“Okay, B.” The first name she thinks of is, of course, Bellamy, but she can’t guess _Bellamy_. It’s not a real name. “Brad?”

“Brad?” he asks. He actually sounds offended.

“Bill? Bob? Ben? Ooh, Bruce? Like Batman?”

“You’re seriously never going to guess.”

“Brandon?” She strains for another name that isn’t Bellamy and remembers that’s not his only name. “Blake?”

For a second, she thinks she has it. “Kind of.”

“How can your name kind of be something?”

“It’s my last name.”

And _that’s_ when she gets it. It _has_ to be him. He’s not the only guy in town whose last name is Blake and whose first name starts with B, but it all clicks together. Because–it’s so perfect. She hasn’t actually seen any anime, but that’s what would happen, right? This whole time, she’s had a crush on this superhero, and he’s had a crush on his classmate, and they’ve both been thinking they didn’t have a chance.

It’s too perfect to not be true. It has to be.

“Bellamy,” she says, and it’s everything she never knew she wanted.

*

“So, I want to hear about your childhood trauma,” Bellamy says. They’re in her bed; she’s changed into pajamas and he’s stripped down to his boxers, and she’s pretty sure she’s not getting laid tonight, but in a nice way. In the way where they’re going to snuggle and kiss and wake up together in the morning. There’s no _rush_. She’s going to get laid soon; she doesn’t mind not getting laid tonight. Not when she gets this.

“What’s my childhood trauma?”

“That was my question.” He rubs her shoulder. “I get that you’re sure no one likes you for you. And I don’t blame you, you’re kind of an asshole, so–” She bites him, and he laughs. “Seriously. It feels like something must have happened. Do I have to kick someone’s ass?”

That makes her smile, and she nuzzles her face closer against his neck. Honestly, if she’d known Bellamy looked and felt this good mostly naked, she probably could have forgotten about Bumblebee a lot earlier.

But this is so much better.

“It’s not–no, you don’t have to.”

“You should still tell me. I would have asked sooner if I didn’t think it would spook you.”

“How much effort did you put into not scaring me away this year?” she asks, genuinely curious.

“The right amount, apparently.” His lips press against her hair. “If you’re just self-centered and paranoid, that’s cool too. I won’t dump you.”

“Oh good.” She closes her eyes. “It doesn’t feel like enough,” she admits. She doesn’t even think of herself as once bitten, just–pecked a lot. Until she winced at every shadow. “We moved a lot when I was a kid. But my family is rich, and I started doing the modeling thing early. So I was always popular wherever I went.”

“Yeah, I feel really bad for you,” he teases, and she pokes his side. But it’s better than sympathetic silence, honestly.

“Once I left, no one really cared about putting any effort into staying in touch. I didn’t notice for a while. The only person I kept track of was my friend Wells, and I’ve known him since I was born. And even though–we’re friends, but a lot of the time, we don’t actually have much to say to each other.”

“Like me and Miller.”

She snorts. “Not quite.” She closes her eyes. “If there was one thing, it was–this girl. I was fourteen, and I thought I might be gay. And there was this girl I liked. I still don’t really get how it _happened_ , but we ended up kissing and fooling around. Nothing more than groping, but–it was great until I found out she just wanted to sell a story about how I was a lesbian.”

“Jesus. When you were _fourteen_?”

“Yeah. My mom paid her off and we kept it quiet, but–I came out as bi the next year, just so no one could do it for me. And I never forgot about it.”

“That’s pretty decent childhood trauma,” he says. “Like–solid eight out of ten.”

It startles a laugh out of her. “Thanks. What’s yours?”

“I’m only social at school because we didn’t always have enough to eat when I was a kid and I didn’t want social services to come investigate us.”

“Yeah?”

“You might have noticed I tend to hate people. It took me a while to figure out how to get a friend group, and it’s still pretty pathetic.”

“Just a little.” She props her chin on his chest. “So Bumblebee let you be yourself too. Grumpy and belligerent.”

“Basically.” He worries his lip. “But mostly just to Lioness. I’d never been, uh–special like that. Before. I was kind of pissed you showed up to share the spotlight.”

“I was kind of pissed when you weren’t more of a jerk when you saved me. You know– _me_. I thought you were maybe one of those guys who just liked that I was a model.”

He laughs. “You were still really nice to me.”

“Well, I still wanted you to think I was cute. Just–I wouldn’t have minded having to earn it.”

“You saved my sister,” he says, and it’s still amazing to her that that’s it. That’s all it took, and she got Bellamy Blake’s loyalty for life. “So it makes sense now, right?”

She cuddles back in, closing her eyes. “Yeah. It all makes sense.”


	23. I've Been Dreaming of You from the Other Side (I Know You So Well) - Bellamy POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [krizpossible](http://krizpossible.tumblr.com/)! Original fic [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4861361).

“Wow,” says Octavia. “Is that a new record for alienating a new coworker?”

Bellamy rubs his face. “Shut up, O.”

“Let me guess, she’s too pretty and your brain stopped working. This is why you’re single.”

“Oh good, I’m glad you figured that out.” He sighs. “She’s not coming back, is she?”

“She looked pretty pissed. What did you say?”

It’s so tempting to just put his head down on the bar and wait for death. It can’t possibly take that long, right?

But Octavia would definitely poke him until he got up, and then go flirt with Lincoln, just to rub salt in his wounds. He raised her completely wrong. “The registration act,” he tells her, and her face instantly darkens.

Octavia is what most people call a _useless_ meta. She always knows exactly what time it is and the temperature to several decimal points, and she’s pretty good at predicting the weather. He’s sure the government could find some way to use her, if she signed herself up, but he has no idea what it would be, and her powers have basically no effect on her life.

That doesn’t mean she doesn’t hate the registration act as much as the rest of them.

“She thinks it’s good?”

“No, I’m pretty sure she hates it. I accidentally made it sound like I liked it.” He gives up and lets his head thunk down on the bar. “Fuck. I wasn’t even trying to be a dick anymore.”

“What did you do?” asks Jasper, collapsing onto Bellamy’s back with a groan. Honestly, Bellamy didn’t know it was possible for someone to drink so much and still be such a fucking lightweight. “She was hot! I was going to hit on her.”

“I thought you were hitting on Maya,” says O. “Also, if you wanted to hit on her, why were you letting her talk to Bell?”

Jasper frowns. “I can’t tell if the issue is he scared her off or he’s hotter than I am.”

“Honestly, probably both,” says Octavia. “Not that I’m saying my brother is hot. Just that you’re not.”

Jasper oozes into a bar seat of his own and hits himself in the chest. “Ouch. That hurts.”

“I’m telling you this as a friend.”

Bellamy tunes out their chatter, just staring at his beer. He knows he’s bad with new people. He knows he’s kind of a dick. And he hadn’t even really been _trying_ to be nice with Clarke, because he really doesn’t need to get close to any of his coworkers. His extracurricular activities make friendships awkward; if you never get invited out, you don’t have to come up with excuses not to go. And, okay, he still gets invited, but he has a reputation for not going. Everyone just makes fun of him for being a grumpy old man.

It _works_ for him.

But–he kind of liked Clarke. As personality traits go, he knows _abrasive asshole_ is a bad one, and he doesn’t blame anyone for just ditching him. But Clarke was an abrasive asshole right back, and that was fun. It’s the kind of relationship he thinks he could have repaired.

He still kind of wants to repair it.

Fuck, he can’t have a crush. He absolutely _can’t_. Not on a coworker. Not on anyone who doesn’t know about him.

In that respect, meeting Flame a few hours later should be _perfect_. He’s always wanted a partner; being a meta, one with the kind of powers he can actually _use_ , always felt like it should lead to the kind of life he always wanted. Friends, allies, comic-book teamups. It was easy to romanticize, when he was a kid.

Once he saw Vector kill a girl, that fantasy died.

But Flame is good. Inexperienced and clearly higher-budget than he is, but with the same kind of priorities he has, and fun to talk to. He should definitely develop a thing for her, because that seems like a much better idea. Getting a crush on someone who knows him as a superhero first is definitely the way to go. It’s the correct order of operations.

It makes so much sense, and Flame is _great_. Working with her is exactly how he thought it would be, having a partner. He can trust her, rely on her, and talk to her.

And, despite all that, he still wants _Clarke_.

Maybe his sister’s right. Maybe he _is_ an idiot.

*

“You don’t do any clubs, right?”

Clarke looks up from her desk, wary but not hostile. He thinks he’s actually done a decent job of making up for his shitty first impression. She seems to be one of those people who likes bickering as a display of friendship, like him, and their disagreements have gone from destructive to agreeable.

Plus, all their coworkers seem to have noticed he has a huge thing for her, which he’d ordinarily be upset about, except it means that no one else is trying to hit on her. He’s bad enough at this without competition.

“Not yet,” she says, careful.

He nods. “So you have a lot of free time.”

“Or I have a rich and rewarding life outside of school.”

That gets a grin out of him. She really is awesome.“Yeah, we count that as free time. I need help with the Halloween dance.”

“What about it?”

“Planning, decorating, chaperoning, etc.,” he says, with a wave of his hand. “Call it three nights a week after school for the next two weeks, and then working the dance on Saturday.”

“And there’s no one else you could possibly ask.”

Of course he has other people he can ask. Lincoln will basically always do whatever he asks, because he is laboring under the misapprehension that this will help him out with Octavia, and Miller is secretly a softie who loves helping out. He has all sorts of people who would help him.

But he wants Clarke to do it.

“You can’t put off it off forever,” he tells her, which is actually true. It’s not just his bias. “You have to get involved with extracurriculars at some point. I’m doing you a favor.”

“I think you just don’t want to do the work yourself,” she grumbles.

“I’m not hearing a no, here.”

“If I say yes, will you leave me alone for the rest of the period so I can actually plan, or do we have to start right away?”

“I’ll leave. Just come by my room after school, we can do logistics.”

Even after the mostly positive conversation, he’s half-expecting her to not show up. After all, it’s going to suck. He hates dances, and this is the first big one of the year, which means it’s the worst one. All these optimistic kids who think they’re going to be popular this year show up and have a terrible time, and he feels horribly guilty.

So when Clarke knocks on his door frame after the last bell, it’s honestly a huge relief. Not just because he really wanted _someone_ to help.

He’s using a high-school dance to get close to his crush. Fuck, he wanted to _get over_ this.

“So,” says Clarke. “How does planning a dance work?”

“I’m glad you asked. It sucks.”

She laughs. “Wow. Don’t sugarcoat it for me, Bellamy.”

“I would never.”

“Always good for my daily dose of realism.” She rolls up her sleeves, apparently just for dramatic effect, because they immediately slide back down; it’s stupidly cute. “How specifically does it suck?”

“In all possible ways.” He grabs his to-do list. “Pick your poison.”

“You owe me,” she mutters, but she’s smiling.

“I owe you,” he agrees. “Feel free to collect any time.”

*

The dance goes well, and Clarke starts spending more time with him, which really _should_ make him feel better about his life, but mostly it just makes him feel like he should never say anything about his feelings for her, for fear of destroying the delicate balance they’ve achieved. Which is sad, he knows, but–it’s really been so long since he did anything like this. He doesn’t even know how.

Of course, it’s Octavia who decides to press the issue, a couple weeks before Thanksgiving. “So, what’s the current status of your love life? I feel weird that I don’t know.”

“You don’t?” He frowns. “How do you not know?”

“Okay, well, obviously, there’s Clarke.”

“Obviously.”

“But there’s also Flame, right? And she’s hot. Literally.” She smirks, like she’s very proud of this, and Bellamy obligingly supplies a rim-shot noise. Which seems to be all she wanted. “And she knows what you are,” she adds.

“No, she doesn’t,” he says. “She doesn’t know anything about me, O. Nothing real.” He rubs the back of his neck. “She’s awesome, and I like her, but–”

“But you’re in love with Clarke,” Octavia supplies. “Okay, that’s what I figured. So, have you invited her to our party yet?”

“I figured you were covering invitations,” he says.

“Oh, yeah. For everyone else. But you have to invite Clarke. She’s your girlfriend.”

“She’s not, and I hate you.” He rubs his face. “We don’t have to invite her.”

“If you don’t invite her, she won’t come.”

“Her mom’s coming for Thanksgiving.”

“So, you assassinate her mom and then she comes to our party, right? That’s what I’m getting.”

“Yeah. That’s exactly my plan.”

Even though he puts it off for a few days, asking her isn’t actually that difficult. He thinks that if he gives it another year or so, he might actually manage to try for a real date.

If anyone’s betting on him making a move, he’s going to lose them money. Like, a lot of money. But they can use that money to buy him a drink, when she turns him down.

Thanksgiving isn’t generally one of Bellamy’s favorite holidays. On the day itself, Octavia is moody, because it’s one her dad rarely gets to come home for, and he’s not particularly into celebrating the country’s history of native genocide. Plus, turkey is a total pain.

Still, he’s never going to say no to a break from school, and his and O’s post-Thanksgiving party _is_ a great tradition. Octavia makes a giant vat of mulled spiked cider, and no one cares if he goes off on rants about imperialism. Which is his idea of a good party.

But between not having school (and therefore not seeing Clarke) and not having patrols (and not seeing Flame), he’s bored within a day and doing his grading so that once he’s spending time with the people he actually cares about, he won’t be stressed out.

It’s a nice theory, but he can’t help pulling out his phone and texting Clarke within an hour of waking up on Wednesday. He’s got it bad. He _knows_ he has it bad. It’s the worst it’s ever been.

**Me** : How’s your mom?

**Clarke** : On an awkwardness scale of 1-10, probably like 4.

**Me** : Is that good? That sounds good.

**Clarke** : It could be a lot worse.  
How’s your vacation so far?

**Me** : I haven’t put on pants, so I’m counting it as a win.

He’s filled with regret basically as soon as he sends the message. It’s not like he’s _naked_. But he’s in his boxers and a t-shirt on the couch, under an admittedly incredibly embarrassing Superman blanket his sister got him for Christmas last year. It’s an awesome place to be, but–he’d rather Clarke thought he was cool.

Or at least wearing pants. As a bare minimum.

**Me** : That was probably a weird thing to say.

**Clarke** : You’re kind of weird.   
Are you going to put on pants at any point today?

**Me** : Not if I can help it.   
I assume you’re doing tourist stuff with your mom.

**Clarke** : Not if I can help it.

**Me** : If you need someone to text you with a fake emergency, let me know.  
I have booze.  
I’d even put on pants.

**Clarke** : I appreciate the sacrifice, but I’d never make you put on pants just for me.  
That’s going too far.  
Seriously, thanks.  
I think it’s going to be fine, just stressful.  
I’d feel worse if I didn’t see her, I guess.

**Me** : I get it, yeah.  
I’m pretty sure I’m one of the leading experts on mother issues.

**Clarke** : Just because Oedipus is dead.

**Me** : Classical incest reference?  
Ouch.

**Clarke** : I know what you’re into.

He stares at the phone for a minute, torn between the hope that she’s _actually flirting, somehow_ and horror that she actually _does_ know what he’s into.

_Yeah_ , he finally replies. _Just let me know if you need me_.

*

Intellectually, Bellamy knows there is literally no reason to feel like having sex with Flame has any impact on his non-relationship with Clarke. For one, Clarke isn’t interested in him to begin with, and even if she _was_ interested, they’re not dating right now. It’s just–it still makes _him_ feel awkward, guilty and a little itchy. He doesn’t think of himself as one of those people who just has sex, not anymore. Even when he was younger, it was never impulsive like that, never just a spur-of-the-moment decision. Usually, he’d go out with the express purpose of getting laid, and he’d flirt for a while, make sure everyone was on the same page. He’s never just had sex with anyone like that, just because he was overcome with relief and, yeah, okay, lust.

And it was really fucking _awesome_ sex too. Like–possibly the best of his life. And part of him can’t help wondering if he would be better off just trying to make it work with her.

Which he’s really trying to consider, right up until Clarke shows up at the party, wearing a soft blue dress with her hair down, and he loses all ability to think.

Flame’s into someone else, and that doesn’t even matter, because he’s fucking _gone_.

“This is sad, even for you,” Miller observes. He’s watching Clarke by virtue of watching Monty, and Bellamy is trying not to watch either of them without making it too obvious.

“Like you’re hitting on Monty.”

“Yeah, but I know I should be,” Miller says. “I’ve got a plan. You’re just a dumbass.”

“Wait, what’s your plan? Can I steal it?”

“Yeah, it involves knowing Monty’s into me. Which is a step you’re missing. But Clarke’s into you, so just go ask her to dance and stop monopolizing me. Monty might talk to me if I wasn’t feeling sorry for your dumb ass.”

“If you’re going to ask him to dance, why does he need to talk to you? Can’t you just initiate it?” He rubs his face. “Fuck. You think being a high-school teacher regresses your flirting? Is that why we’re at a party not talking to the people we want to date?”

“No, it’s because you suck and I feel sorry for you.”

“You’re a good friend,” says Bellamy, and Miller claps him on the shoulder.

“I really am,” says Miller. “Hi, Clarke,” he adds.

Clarke bumps her shoulder against his, gives him a smile. “Hi, Miller. Bye, Miller. Hi,” she adds, to Bellamy.

She looks even more beautiful up close, and his smile is helpless.“Hi. Having fun?”

“Yeah. Your sister throws a pretty good party.”

“Not giving me any credit, huh?”

She grins. She’s practically leaning against him, but not quite, warm up all against his side. Maybe Miller’s right, and he does have a chance. It’s something to think about. “None at all,” she says. “I have met you. You went out of your way to invite me and said you wanted me to come, and you didn’t even say hi.”

“I waved,” he says weakly, and she snorts.

“You did. Are you having fun?”

_Fun_ is a strong word, but his mild mental breakdown really isn’t her fault. “Sure. How was your Thanksgiving? Everything okay with your mom?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. Not–I’m pretty sure our relationship will be awkward for the rest of our lives, but she’s my mom, you know?”

“Yeah, I get that.” He looks down at his drink, awkward. They’ve had this exact conversation before, and he doesn’t know where else to go with it. Finally, he settles on, “I am, uh. I am glad you came.”

Clarke smiles. “Has your sister made a move on Lincoln yet?”

“Not yet. You could still win.”

“Maybe.”

They lapse into silence for a while, watching the dance floor. It’s always vaguely horrifying to Bellamy that his sister knows enough people to generate a party of this size, and he doesn’t even _know_ half the people out there.

Now would be the time to ask her to dance with him, or to come up with another thing to talk about. Instead, he sips his drink, finds Miller across the room, talking to Monty. At least he doesn’t seem to be doing any better with the whole thing than Bellamy is, despite his mockery.

And then Monty takes Miller’s hand, tugs him gently, and Miller’s smiling and following Monty onto the dance floor. They’re kind of awkward getting set up, neither of them entirely sure where to put their hands, and Bellamy can’t help laughing. It’s cute.

“Okay, yeah,” he tells Clarke. “You were right. I shouldn’t have had faith in Miller.” She doesn’t respond, and he elbows her. “Clarke? You listening?”

She flashes him a smile, but it’s a little off. “Not at all.”

He huffs a laugh, and her smile eases a little. “At least you’re honest.”

“Mostly. What’s up?”

“Monty and Miller are dancing,” he says, jerking his head toward them. “I told you I would have lost the twenty bucks.”

“Octavia’s a safer bet, yeah. I didn’t know dancing was on the agenda,” she adds, sounding a little awkward.

“Octavia always encourages dancing.”

She nods. “So, do you want to?”

“What?”

“Dance.”

He doesn’t actually choke on his cider, but it’s a close call. “With you?”

“You don’t have to,” she says, smug.

“No, no. That’s–” He puts his drink down, offers his hand. “Yeah. Let’s dance.”

*

He spends all of Sunday trying to figure out something to text Clarke and then doing his grading and lesson plans for the end of the week just to avoid thinking about texting Clarke. If nothing else, he figures he’ll get an idea of what to do when he actually sees her on Monday.

So when she doesn’t come in for her planning period like usual, he might panic, just a little. Which–okay, he _knows_ it’s stupid. He knows this entire thing is stupid. And it would be great, if the knowledge that he was being stupid somehow made him _stop_ being stupid.

Mostly, he just can’t stop thinking about what happens if she _does_ want to date him. He’d have to tell her he’s a meta, which isn’t nearly as scary as it should be. After all, her mother is _Abigail Griffin_. Even if Clarke hates registration, it feels like he should be more worried about telling her he’s Tempest. Not even Miller knows.

But he trusts her.

He’s thinking about how to have any of the five conversations he wants to have with Clarke so hard that he doesn’t hear the door open, and he only becomes aware of her when a book hits him in the shoulder.

“Ow, Jesus, what the hell!” he yelps, and scowls reflexively, even when he sees it’s Clarke. “What was that for?”

“You don’t get to make fun of English teachers when you got your stupid code name from a Shakespeare play,” she snaps, and the bottom drops out of his stomach. How does she _know_? Why is she pissed? It’s not like secret identities are something it’s impolite to not share. It’s–

She summons a small ball of flame in her hand, a familiar flicker that’s gone almost before he’s registered it. But he’s seen it enough that it’s instantly identifiable.

Flame’s fire always looks a little different to him.

“Holy shit,” he manages, and it should be the perfect movie moment, the one where he sweeps her up and kisses her, and he’s almost there when he remembers Flame was in love with someone else too. And it could be him, but–it could not be, too. Clarke has her own life, outside of school.

God, he doesn’t know what he’s going to do if it’s not him.

Her expression is all warm exasperation. “Bellamy,” she says, and then she _is_ kissing him, hot and hard, almost desperate, as if she thinks they’re going to run out of time. Which, fuck, they better not. He’s going to fucking _marry_ her. She’s actually the perfect woman, and she–

Somehow, she knew she was into him.

“How did you,” he starts, but it’s so _good_ he doesn’t really want to talk.

“You never fucking _laugh_ ,” she says.

It’s a bizarre enough statement that he actually does manage to pull away. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She’s laughing herself, delight all over her face. He’s never seen anything so perfect in his life. “You’re always just, smirking or snorting or whatever! You never laugh.”

“I laugh.”

She pokes him in the chest. “You don’t, because as soon as I heard it, I knew who you were, so there is no possible way you laugh. I recognized you right away.”

It’s a pretty hard statement to dispute, so he just kisses her again. “Jesus, if I’d known that was all I had to do. I’ll laugh all the fucking time.”

“You just had to ask. _Hell would have to freeze over_ ,” she says, looking a little insulted. Which, okay, he might have been being a little melodramatic. But he knew he wasn’t a great romantic prospect for anyone who didn’t know about the vigilante thing. “You know I was talking about you too, right? We agreed to not sleep with each other because we want to date each other.”

“Thank fucking god. Don’t get me wrong, I’m really into you, but that was some awesome sex.”

He’s never hooked up at school before, but he thinks they’re about three-quarters of the way there when someone knocks. Clarke checks his clothes, straightening his collar with deft fingers.

He groans. It’s a really good thing he got laid last week, or he’d probably pretend to not be here. “You had to do this at school? I’m going to see you tonight, right? You could have waited.”

She looks away, flushing. “Yeah, but–I wanted it to be you,” she admits, soft, and shoves his chest gently. “Go be an educator.”

Monroe turns bright red at the sight of them, so he’s absolutely never going to live this down. Half his students already think they’re dating because Clarke hangs out here, and being caught in his locked classroom with her is definitely the nail in the coffin.

On other hand, he’s pretty sure it’s going to be a lot better getting teased about her when they actually _are_ dating.

“Oh, um, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Monroe stutters. “I just–”

“It’s fine,” Clarke says smoothly. “Mr. Blake and I were just having a discussion about Shakespeare.”

It’s something he has actually yelled about a lot, at least. Then again, he yells about a lot of things. “I’m just saying, he’s a good writer, but that doesn’t make him a historian.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll talk to you later, Blake.”

He turns his attention back to Monroe, gives her a smile. “Sorry. What’s up?”

He manages to get through advising her about the paper even with most of his brain occupied with Clarke. Clarke is Flame, and Clarke is in love with him too, and he doesn’t have to figure out how to tell her he’s got superpowers and a night job, because she already knows.

Clarke Griffin knows him better than anyone else in the world, and she loves him.

“Thanks for the help, Mr. Blake. Sorry I interrupted you and Ms. Griffin.”

He shrugs, gives her an easy smile. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll catch her later.”


	24. Dinotopia (ish)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [twelvegardens](http://twelvegardens.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: Bellarke version of Jurassic Park/World. Basically, dinosaurs.

It’s hard not to think of the park as a dream job.

Which makes no sense, honestly; Bellamy has experience working in theme parks, and they’re usually basically the worst. Hours in the hot sun, shitty pay, and way more bodily fluids than he ever wanted to deal with. And Jurassic Park is no different, except for two things: much, much better pay and _actual fucking dinosaurs_.

It’s hard to argue with actual fucking dinosaurs. Plus, in addition to the generous pay, he gets free room and board. It’s on an isolated tropical island, sure, but his people come from isolated tropical islands. It’s in his blood. And he’s putting Octavia through college and then some.

Plus, again. _Dinosaurs_. He cannot emphasize how cool actual dinosaurs are.

He didn’t think he’d get to actually interact with them much, honestly. It’s not like dinosaur experts actually _exist_ –the field is too new to have anyone studying it as anything other than paleontology–but he figured he’d have to have some kind of background in zoology or biology or at least animal husbandry. But, as it turns out, he has a knack for the work, and it’s not hard to get himself moved from running the cars that go on the Treetop Tour to doing live encounters in Herbivore Hour. He has to wear kind of a dorky hat, but aside from that, it’s actually the best fucking job ever, because he does presentations every hour on the half hour, generally for families with little kids, and he gets to care for the dinosaurs he works with.

Again: he works with _actual dinosaurs_. And it pays even better than operating the ride.

The only downside of the whole thing is that he is, at heart, a pessimist. And as such, it’s hard to believe that he’s not going to get eaten by an Allosaurus. But at least if that happens, he’s got a good life insurance policy. O will be taken care of.

And, as ways to die go, eaten by a dinosaur is at least _awesome_.

That’s what he’s reminding himself of at six a.m., when he’s dragging himself out of his warm bed to go take care of his triceratops. Anyone–himself from ages three to thirteen included–would think that this is about the fucking coolest thing anyone could possibly do for a job. And it is, of course. He knows it is. But that’s how people work: they can get used to anything. And after six months, scooping up dinosaur poop has stopped being novel and started being his job. It has ups and downs, more ups than most of his jobs, but he’s still tired and grumpy and has no actual interest in dealing with this–literal–shit right now.

“I know, I know,” he says, when Atropos nudges his fingers. He gives her snout an absent scratch, and then checks in on the rest of the litter. The triceratops have only just gotten big enough to meet the public, and they’re setill getting used to it. He has to be careful picking which of them to put in front of the crowd, and make sure to pull them out before they get too stressed. “You want to be social today?” he asks Skuld. She coos, and he smiles. “Yeah, me neither. But if we don’t work, we don’t eat.”

It’s a long morning. He takes Clotho for his first two shows and switches to Skuld after she pees on him. A kid gets bitten, which is really not his fault, or Skuld’s. It doesn’t hurt that much, he knows from experience, but everyone is still offended, like they can’t believe herbivores are actual wild animals with mouths. He _told_ the kid to be careful and gentle.

“Not your fault,” he tells Skuld, and gets Atropos prepped for the next show.

By the end of the day, all he’s thinking about is grabbing Miller, Monty, and Raven and going to get wasted, so he’s completely unprepared for a girl asking, “You’re Bellamy Blake, right?”

He blinks. She’s pretty, wavy blonde hair and bright eyes, older than his usual spectators. He noticed her in the audience and assumed she was an sister or a nanny, but she knows his name and doesn’t have any kids with her.

“Am I being served?” he asks, and she laughs.

“That’s really your first guess?”

“Apparently.”

“I go to school with your sister,” she says. “I told her I was coming here for the summer and she told me I should say hi.”

“Oh,” he says, taken off guard. He puts down his dinosaur so he can offer his hand. “Then, yeah, I’m Bellamy.”

“Cool, you’ve been served,” she says, without missing a beat, and he barks out a laugh. “Sorry,” she adds, without contrition. “Couldn’t resist.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t be able to either.” He tries a smile. She’s really cute. “I didn’t get your name, and O didn’t warn me you were coming.”

“Yeah, I got that impression. I’m Clarke. Nice to meet you.”

“You too,” he says. “How are you liking the park?”

“It’s pretty amazing. I wasn’t really prepared for–I’d seen pictures, I knew what it was, but I still wasn’t ready for real, living dinosaurs.”

“Yeah, I was like that for a solid month.”

“And now?”

He shrugs. “It’s my job. It’s only surreal like twice a day.” He pauses, but she’s O’s friend and he hasn’t gotten laid since Roma got a serious thing going with Luz from control, so he’ll admit to wanting to spend more time with her. And maybe impress her. Just a little. “You want to come feed some dinosaurs with me?”

She lights up. “Really?”

“I get a couple perks,” he says. “And I could use another pair of hands.”

While they’re working with the hatchlings, Bellamy learns about Clarke. She’s twenty-one, a year older than Octavia and three years younger than he is, and a rising senior in college. She’s here for two whole months, because her rich mother just remarried an equally rich guy, and this is a combination of their honeymoon and the new guy’s attempt to ingratiate himself with Clarke.

“Which, honestly, I would have told him not to bother, but– _dinosaurs_. And Octavia told me I _had_ to come, as soon as she heard. She said you were always sending awesome pictures.”

“Yeah, she keeps trying to convince me to let her drop out of college to come work here. I told her she had to get a degree first.”

“But she’s coming at the end of the summer, right?”

He can’t help a grin. “Yeah, she is. She hasn’t shut up about it for weeks.”

“ _I just have to get through this boring internship and then I get DINOSAURS_ ,” says Clarke, in a passable imitation of his sisters’ cadence.

“You’re hot, please don’t pretend you’re my sister,” he says, to test her reaction, and to his profound joy, she grins.

“Got it. I’m hot?” she adds, clearly pleased.

“Sorry, has no one ever told you before? Did you not notice?”

“I figured it out.” She wets her lips. “So, what do you do for fun around here?”

The next month is solidly awesome. He hangs out with Clarke whenever he’s not working, and she stops by a few times during each of his shifts, watching the show and checking in with the triceratops. He’d feel bad about fooling around with a friend of his sister’s, but Clarke is a fully consenting adult and he really, really likes her. It’s hard to figure out where they stand, given she’s on vacation and in school, but–he thinks they might really have something. He’s incapable of feeling anything but thrilled about that.

He’s half-asleep in his bed with her curled on his chest, worn out and content, when the alarm starts going off.

Clarke stirs. “Fire?” she asks, bleary, and yelps as he jumps up, scrambling to find his pants and a shirt.

“Attention staff,” says the robotically calm voice of the alarm system. “Class C emergency. All non-emergency staff should remain in their rooms. Lockdown of living quarters in three minutes. Emergency staff, please report to your designated response area.”

“What’s Class C?” Clarke asks. To his surprise, she starts getting dressed herself. “And since when are you emergency staff?”

“I’m not,” he says. “You should stay here. Class C means that there’s been a breach in containment. A predator got out.”

She takes a second to consider this, but only a second. Then she’s pulling on her shoes. “So where are we going? Don’t tell me you have some compulsive need to take me back to my mom. I do have a cell phone.”

“You don’t have to come,” he says. “This is going to sound stupid.”

“You’re worried about your dinosaurs,” she says.

“Jesus, am I that obvious?”

Clarke pulls the door open and gestures him through. Part of him knows he should tell her not to come, but honestly, he could use the backup. And it would be nice to not be splitting his worry between his dinosaurs and his maybe-girlfriend. If Clarke was here, he’d be worried about something happening. If she comes with him, at least he’ll know what’s happening with her.

“Predator’s out,” she says. “Your dinosaurs are prey. Of course you’re going.” She bumps her shoulder against his with a tight smile. “I do know your sister. She likes to get drunk and complain about how you’re the biggest mother hen of all time.”

“And you were like, _wow, better fuck him if I ever get the chance_?”

She snorts. “She does have pictures of you.” Her hand slides into his and she squeezes. “Just tell me where we’re going and what you need me to do.”

There’s never been an actual incident while Bellamy’s worked here. They’ve done drills, but everyone knew those were drills, so just did what he was supposed to: hung out in his room, watching Netflix and waiting for the siren to stop going off. He hadn’t really thought about what he would do in case of an actual emergency, but in retrospect, he probably _knew_.

He’s always had an overdeveloped sense of responsibility.

“Are we close to any of the predators?” Clarke asks, soft.

“Always,” he says. “Velociraptors are what I’m most worried about. I don’t think a lot of the big ones would be an issue.” She squeezes his hand again, encouraging. “The hatchlings aren’t stupid. They have good instincts. The big stuff, as long as it doesn’t see them, it’s fine. And it would have to get into their compound, which is tough. I think they’ll have better stuff to attack.”

“And you’re not worried if we’re there, they’ll be in more danger?”

The question is curious, not judgmental, and Bellamy realizes he is the _expert_ here. He’s one of the foremost living experts on dinosaurs. He’s not emergency staff, but he actually _gets_ this.

“I think we should make sure they’re safe,” he says. “And then I’m probably going to get eaten by a dinosaur.”

“Sounds good,” says Clarke. “I’m in.”

In the end, they mostly just hide a lot of baby dinosaurs, figure out how to set a trap, and lure a bunch of escaped raptors into one of the pens they cleared out. As plans go, it’s reckless, dangerous, and should, by all rights, get him fired, but because it _works_ , so he gets a raise and a promotion.

Apparently, he’s even more of an expert on dinosaurs than he thought.

Clarke leaves three weeks after that, which sucks, but she leaves him with a lingering kiss, her cellphone number, and a Facebook friend request, and he’s barely even had time to be upset before she texts: _Two questions: 1. Do you think Jurassic Park is nice at Christmas? and 2. How do you feel about long distance?_

He flops onto his back and lets his triceratops clamber on him, little snouts nuzzling him happily, and grins at the ceiling.

He _loves_ his job.


	25. The Growing Circle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [aerinalanna](http://aerinalanna.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: Emelan AU with Clarke (Sandry), Raven (Daja), Bellamy (Briar), and Octavia (Tris), where Bellamy's family gave up both of them when they were young, and Bellamy was unable to keep them together and ended up running away from his foster home to find O, which is how (Niko character) found him, and O has been through so many foster homes because of her magic, and maybe Abby/Kane as the Rosethorn/Crane dynamic? Working Lincoln and/or Monty/Miller in would be amazing, too.

The Temple is way too nice.

That’s Bellamy’s first thought, as he follows Lincoln in through the high arched doorway. He’s lived a lot of places, half of which he can’t even remember, and this isn’t the kind of place he could ever _live_. They’re going to toss him out in under a week.

Which means he’s planning to spend that week exploring, finding everything he can carry that isn’t nailed down, and getting out before they can throw him out.

He doesn’t care what Lincoln says. He doesn’t have magic, and they don’t want him.

Once they’re in the courtyard, Lincoln looks around and nods, apparently satisfied. “Well, here you are.” And then he starts walking away, leaving Bellamy _alone_.

It’s nothing new, but it’s fairly alarming.

“You’re just leaving?” he demands.

“I said I’d bring you here. I brought you. Dedicates Abigail and Indra will deal with you now.”

He looks around meaningfully. “Yeah, I can tell they’re really doing a good job.”

“I wasn’t aware you were hoping for more supervision,” Lincoln says. “But if you’d like me to stay until you’re taken care of–”

“No!” he says. He’s _fifteen_ ; he doesn’t need anyone watching him. And if they’re not going to pay attention to him, that’s _great_. It’ll make it easier to find what he wants and get out.

It’s just–he can’t believe Lincoln went to all this trouble to convince him to come, and now he’s just going to _leave_. There’s nothing to keep Bellamy here. Dedicates Abigail and Indra–whoever they are–don’t even care. Maybe they’re not even here. Maybe this whole thing was a trap, and Lincoln is just setting him up to get executed.

“Where are they?” he finally asks.

“Indra spends most of her time in the garden. Abigail handles day-to-day affairs; she might not be here. And I’m sure Clarke is somewhere.”

“Clarke?” he asks, but Lincoln is already on his way again.

And, abruptly, Bellamy is alone, in the middle of the Winding Circle Temple.

It’s not as if being alone is unfamiliar. He’s been alone for the vast majority of his life. But that’s because he didn’t have anyone, and this doesn’t feel like that.

This feels like–well, if he’s supposed to live here, of course he wouldn’t have an escort. To Lincoln, it’s just logical. Why wouldn’t he be left alone, if it’s his home?

And there’s a garden. He wouldn’t mind seeing the garden.

*

In his first few days at Winding Circle, Bellamy learns the following things: Abigail and her daughter, Clarke, are traveling for a few days, Indra has plant magic and believes he does too, and she thinks he should stay and be taught.

It’s hard to argue with her logic. She’s practical and no-nonsense, and if her interest in him has any kind of affectionate or charitable motivations, he can’t find them. Plenty of well-meaning people have wanted to be his family before; Indra knows he has a talent and knows it needs to be nurtured. And he can help her.

It feels much more stable than some stranger who feels sorry for him. Once the sympathy runs out, the relationship ends; this is about what he can _do_.

It’s really nice, until Abigail and Clarke come back.

He doesn’t know they’ve returned until he shows up at dinner, and there are these two clean, proper _ladies_ there, sitting too stiff and awkward, like they’ve been waiting for him and Indra for a long time.

The older one looks like she doesn’t know how to smile; the girl is–well, he doesn’t know what to make of the girl. It looks like being proper takes at least a little effort for her.

Indra seems unconcerned. She sits down next to Abigail and says, “Oh, you’re back.”

“You’re late,” says Abigail. Her eyes flick to Bellamy. “Another stray from Lincoln?”

“Sit down, Bellamy,” Indra says. “He’s a plant mage. A good one. It took Lincoln long enough to find me one.”

Bellamy takes the seat next to Clarke. He tries out smiling at her, out of curiosity, and she smiles back. She’s a year or two younger than he is, he thinks, prim and proper and obviously wealthy.

But he can imagine her getting dirty in a garden, if she needed to.

“This is Clarke,” says Indra. “She came only a few weeks before you did. And her mother, Dedicate Abigail.”

“Nice to meet you,” says Clarke, and he echoes the sentiment, too aware of the dirt smudges he never manages to get off his face and the twin tattoos on his hands, the stark, black exes that everyone knows mean he’s a thief.

He could fit in with Indra. He’s not convinced he can fit in to a group, and dinner doesn’t make him any more confident. But he survives it.

His favorite place in the temple is the roof; he’s always been good at climbing, and he spent his first night here unable to sleep, finding all the best ways to clamber over the unused parts of the building, figuring out escape routes, if he needed one.

Now, he just sits up here because he likes it. With his belly always full and his bed always dry, he has a lot of time he doesn’t know how to fill, and lying under the stars is nice.

The sound of someone else startles him, and when he sees Clarke jumping up with practiced ease, he can’t help a wince.

At least she looks as surprised to see him as he is to see her. She wasn’t following him.

“Hello,” she says, careful.

“Evening,” he replies.

“What are you doing up here?”

“Am I not allowed?”

She huffs, gathers her skirts so she can flop down next to him. It’s ungraceful enough to make him like her, just a little. “You’re allowed. I’m just used to being the only one up here. I didn’t think anyone else knew about it.”

“Maybe no one else did.”

He’s expecting her to say something more, to make conversation. To ask who he is and what he thinks he’s doing here.

But she just lies back and looks at the stars, and after a few seconds, he does the same.

It’s not so bad.

*

“You’ve only been here for a month?” he asks Clarke, three nights later on the roof. It’s the first conversation they’ve made, but–he’s really, really curious. If he’s going to stay, he wants to know what’s happening. And he doesn’t get Clarke. She has thread magic and she’s learning from her mother, but–she only _just_ started.

“About,” she agrees.

“Why weren’t you here before?”

“Lincoln hadn’t found me yet.”

“Your mom’s here. Why did Lincoln have to find you?”

There’s a pause, and then she says, “I didn’t know her either.”

“Why not?”

Another pause. “I’m not just going to tell you about me. You have to tell me about yourself too. Or it’s not fair.”

It’s his turn to think. “Sure,” he agrees. “Tell me about your mom and I’ll tell you about mine.”

He finds out Clarke is nobility, like he thought, but her father is nobility in another land, some foreign empire, and Clarke grew up there. She thought her mother was dead, although she realized later no one had ever _said that_ , not in so many words. And when her father and the rest of her family died in a plague, Lincoln came.

He hadn’t known he was bringing her to her mother either.

“It’s his magic,” she says. “Finding people who need to be found.”

“Does he take requests?” he asks, and when she cocks her head, he tells her about his own family. The father who died before he was born, the mother who went from lover to lover, trying to find one. The sister who had magic of her own, a hard, uncontrollable magic that scared their family.

When they’d thrown her out, he’d gone with her, because she’d always been his responsibility. But he couldn’t keep them together. And no matter how hard he looks, he can’t find her.

Clarke rests her cheek against his shoulder, a shock of contact. “Lincoln is through every few weeks. You should ask him.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice dry. When was the last time anyone leaned on him for support? Maybe not since his sister.

Not that Clarke is anything like his sister. Clarke is–his friend. He thinks. This is what it’s like, having a friend. It’s how he thought it would be.

“Did you ever have a garden before?” she asks, and he tells her about the hidden patches of earth he’d find in the city, of caring for the things he planted there, until they fall asleep.

In the morning, Lincoln comes with Raven, and Bellamy has to get used to a whole new life again.

But he’s getting better at it.

*

Even though he asks, he doesn’t really believe that Lincoln will bring Octavia, and by the time he’s been gone a month, he’s starting to get antsy about it. His life is good–so much better than he ever thought it would be–but he doesn’t know how to stay still. He can’t stay here, making friends and laughing and learning to use his magic. Not when his sister is out there somewhere, needing him.

It’s not like he can’t _come back_. Now that he knows they’re here. And maybe if he leaves, they won’t want him, because he’s ungrateful, but–that’s fine.

He was all right on his own before, and he can be all right on his own again.

At the very least, he’s not going to steal anything on his way out. He’ll take some food, but that’s not _stealing_. He grew it himself. It’s as much his as anyone’s.

He goes to the roof, stargazes with Clarke and Raven, like any other night, and then he packs up his things, writes a note for Indra, and then another for Clarke and Raven. They’ll be mad at him, but he thinks they’ll forgive him, too.

That’s what friends do.

He keeps on thinking that’s what friends do right up until he gets to the gate, and Clarke and Raven are already there, with their own packs. They look awake, ready to travel, and just as determined as he is.

If he could stop smiling, he might be able to talk them out of it.

“How did you know?” he asks instead.

“You’re not hard to read,” Raven says. She pushes off the wall. “You’ve been going out of your mind since I got here.”

“Where are we going?” Clarke asks. “Do you have any idea where she could be?”

“If I knew, I already would have gone,” he grumbles, and Clarke bumps his shoulder. “We lived in the capital, so–start there, right?”

“Sounds good,” she says. “Lead the way.”

They’ve been going for half an hour before he remembers to ask, “Did I say thanks?”

“Nope,” says Raven.

“Jerk,” adds Clarke.

It feels like his face might split from smiling.

Two hours later, dawn is growing, and Clarke spots Lincoln.

“I thought we’d get a little farther before they found us,” Raven grumbles, but Bellamy’s mouth is dry as he watches. Because Lincoln’s not alone. Lincoln has a small form next to him, this dark, scowling girl who’s looking up to see him too, brightening and running and–

“Bell!” she says, and he barely catches her.

“You couldn’t have given me one more day?” Lincoln asks, dry, when he catches up. He glances at Clarke, and then at Raven. “I’m glad the three of you work as well together as I thought you would. Are you ready to go back home?”

Bellamy squeezes his sister, lets her finish wiping her eyes on his shoulder. She’s gotten too big for him to carry her for too long, but he leaves his arm around her, firm and warm. _Octavia_. Safe and alive, coming back with him. To somewhere they can help her use her powers. To somewhere they won’t get rid of her, when she’s willful and dangerous.

His place. For the first time.

“Yeah,” he tells Lincoln. “Let’s go home.”


	26. Let's Talk About Spaceships

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [howdareyouhughdancy](http://howdareyouhughdancy.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: BELLARKE! CLARKE IS THE CAPTAIN OF A STARFLEET SHIP AND BELLAMY IS HER FIRST OFFICER! SPACE SHENANIGANS!

Nepotism, as her first officer likes to remind Clarke _all the time_ , is a terrible thing. It causes all sorts of problems, not just for the people who have to serve under the unqualified youngster, but also for the youngster herself, who’s in way over her head.

At this point in the conversation/lecture, Clarke usually says, “Did you just say _youngster_? You’re not that much older than I am. Also, no one says that,” and he’ll tell her that _he_ says that, and she can shut up.

Which is how most of her interactions with Bellamy go. But it’s a dynamic that works for them.

He doesn’t even _really_ think that her promotion was entirely the result of pure nepotism. Both her parents are–or were–high-ranking Starfleet officers, but she has her own merits too.

And, more importantly, she wasn’t given command of the ship because her mother wanted to fast-track her to promotion. She was given command of a ship because Starfleet wanted her far from home. Officially, she’s a hero for helping her father expose the problems he found on the lunar colonies, for helping to save people.

Unofficially, she’s an embarrassment. Everyone is hoping that five years on exploratory missions will cure her of her rebellious streak and make her forget that her father is dead.

If it’s nepotism, it’s the worst version of nepotism ever. _Sorry your father is dead and your mother helped cover up his death. Here’s a ship_.

But Bellamy is right about one part of it: she’s not really completely prepared for this position. She shouldn’t have been raised to captain this quickly, and her lack of experience is going to get her or her crew killed, one of these days.

Possibly today. Possibly right now.

Her universal translator got knocked out, so whatever the Ailurian is saying just comes out as a lot of harsh sounds. If their language was transcribed into roman characters, there would be a _lot_ of k’s.

Which is appropriate, because, again. They’re going to _kill_ her.

She holds up her hands, palms out, displaying her empty hands. There’s no such thing as a _universal_ gesture; the Ailurians are roughly humanoid, four limbs and a head, but they move more like cats than humans, preferring to be on all fours to standing erect.

They are, in theory, peaceful, but they’ve never encountered the Federation before. Their neighbors say they’re peacelike but touchy, and Clarke is generally agreed to be the best diplomat on the crew. And she probably would be, except that the jungle they beamed into short-circuited all here electronic devices.

But she has a good crew. Raven will have been monitoring, and when they lose contact, she’ll scan the trees and probably find the problem.

They’ll send a team down, pick her up, and sort it out. Bellamy will tell her, again, how stupid it was for her to come down _alone_ , and she’ll point out that if she had died, he’d be happy to have not lost any more crew.

If she does die, he’ll take care of them. He’ll be a good captain.

But she’d rather they saved her. All things considered.

The Ailurian gestures with its head, like it wants her to do something. Raven noticed the low energy on the planet, but none of their neighbors mentioned _they kill electronics_. It seems like the kind of thing _someone_ should have mentioned.

They’ll figure it out. Monty will get in touch with one of the other planets, explain what happened. Raven will scan the planet’s surface again. Bellamy won’t just beam down here and–

“Hi,” he says, right on cue. “Is that really your plan? Just hold your hands up?”

She glances back; he’s got two more Ailurians behind him, herding him toward her, and he’s alone.

“Yeah, clearly your plan is going so much better.” She huffs. “Just you?”

He glances around, and then leans in, too close. “I’m just the bait.”

Clarke wants to glare at him, but she’s not going to break eye contact with the Ailurian. “So, you’re telling me _I_ have a bad plan, and yours is _get the Captain and the First Officer taken hostage, so if something bad happens, Jasper will be the new Captain_?”

“Scorched Earth,” he says. “If I die, I’m taking all of you with me.”

“Great. This is why I’m the Captain.”

“Obviously.” He smiles, tight but real. “Trust me.”

She does, of course. He’s been her first officer for two years, and her best friend for almost that long. There’s no one in the entire universe she trusts as much as she trusts him.

That being said, she can still think he’s an idiot.

“You’re the one who didn’t bring an away team,” he adds. “I’m just following your lead.”

“We had repairs we needed to get done. We couldn’t spare–”

“The Captain.”

The Ailurians, who had been conferring, come back, and start herding them again. Bellamy gets in front of her, offering the slight protection he can, and she resists the urge to kick him.

He could have at least sent a security officer.

“At what point does your plan start–”

His communicator beeps, which would be a huge relief, if the sound didn’t put every one of the Ailurians on the defensive, fur standing straight up.

“What’s my line?” Clarke murmurs.

“ _We come in peace_ is traditional,” says Bellamy.

“Great,” she says, and puts her hands up again. “My name is Captain Clarke Griffin, of the United Federation of Planets. This is my first officer, Bellamy Blake.” The Ailurians are still looking at them, wary, so she adds, “We come in peace.”

The aliens look at each other, and then one brings itself up on its hind legs, like it’s imitating them. It cocks its head, and then says, in its harsh voice, “I am Khadum.”

“See?” Bellamy says, low. “Can’t go wrong with the classics.”

Clarke elbows him.

*

“So, how does this work?” Bellamy asks. They’ve got an alliance with the Ailurians and the repairs on the ship are almost done. Dr. Jackson checked them out and confirmed they haven’t picked up any weird bacteria, and no one fell into a wormhole or time loop or a holodeck malfunction while they were gone.

It’s maybe their most functional week ever.

“I thought you knew how to drink,” she says, raising her glass. They’re drinking real alcohol, not replicated, which they only do after or a treaty. Or if they’re in a really, really bad mood. “I can drink yours, if you forgot how.”

He snorts. “I’ll figure it out,” he says, and takes a pointed sip. “I just meant, do you tell me I was being reckless? Do I tell you I told you so? Are we going to take turns or talk over each other?”

Clarke has to smile. “How much do you want to yell at me?”

He manages to resist for all of a nanosecond. “It was stupid to go alone, I _told you_ it was stupid, you’re the captain, you can’t just–” At the sight of her smug smile, he stops and huffs. “So I guess I’m going first.”

“Honestly, I was just going to ask you why you thought coming down alone after me was a good idea, but me going down alone was reckless and stupid.”

“Because I didn’t come down alone,” he says, folding his arms over his chest. “I just came after you alone. We had a whole away team, in case Raven couldn’t get the electronics back. You were the one who thought we shouldn’t overwhelm them with too many people.” He pauses, deliberate, and takes a sip of his whiskey for dramatic effect. “Besides, I think Jasper would be a pretty good captain.”

“Sure you do.”

For a minute, they drink in companionable silence, and then Bellamy leans forward, deliberate, looking tired. He’s been having a rough few weeks, she knows. Part of it is just being out for so long, in unexplored space. It’s not as if he doesn’t have friends, herself included, but she knows he misses his sister like a lost limb, and the news that she was getting married hadn’t made him feel better. She lives on a colony world, he’ll be able to go, but he’s aware of her life going by while he’s here.

Everyone Clarke loves is on this ship, aside from her mother, and her mother is complicated. It’s harder for Bellamy.

Part of her is sure, horribly sure, that he won’t be back after Octavia’s wedding. That he’ll request a transfer or leave Starfleet, because he doesn’t want to miss out on nieces and nephews. She can’t honestly say she’d blame him. He deserves to have a family of his own. Just because she’s exiled in the middle of nowhere doesn’t mean she wants everyone else to be stuck with her.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you,” she says.

He looks confused. “Leaving what?”

“You’re going to resign.”

“What? No.” He rubs his face. “Why would you say that?”

“You’ve been acting weird ever since your sister got engaged. And now you’re being serious and taking risks and–”

He actually laughs. “Yeah, uh–that’s not what’s happening.”

“But something is happening. I’m not wrong.”

He puts his drink on her desk and sighs. “I came for you because I was worried about you,” he says. “No excuse. No good reason. I just–I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“That’s not new,” she says, a little wary, honestly. He’s acting like this is something she didn’t know, but he’s always worried about her, just like she worries about him. They’re crewmates; it’s what they do. “That’s why you come for me every time. And then you lecture me on my bad decision-making. This is what we do, Bellamy. It’s what we’ve done ever since I accidentally got engaged to that prince on Farosh V.”

He snorts. “I forgot about that. I couldn’t believe you were my _captain_.”

“I’m too good at diplomacy!” she protests, laughing, and he laughs too.

“Is that what they’re calling it?”

“I charmed him.”

“You accidentally participated in a ritual you didn’t understand.” He shakes his head. “Fuck, I can’t believe we survived the first six months.”

“Because you were actively trying to sabotage me?” she teases.

“It was for the good of the ship.”

“I thought I was going to get myself killed today,” she admits. “And you would have been so disappointed in me.”

“If you got yourself killed, disappointment wouldn’t really be my primary reaction.”

“You know what I meant.”

“I do.” He lets out a breath. “You didn’t know what I meant.”

“About what?” she asks. She’s not _that_ drunk. It’s hard to get that drunk, given how precious their liquor supply is and how carefully they ration it. Bellamy’s the one who isn’t making sense here.

“My sister thinks I’m in love with you,” he says, all at once, this rush of it. “And I told her she was wrong, until I thought about–basically every single thing we’ve done together. And I realized she was right. So–fuck, I was so scared I was going to lose you, before I even figured out how to tell you I–”

“Oh,” she breathes.

“Sorry,” he says, which is about the last follow-up she expected to the confession. “If you want me to resign–”

“What?” It comes out too sharp, and he winces. “Why would you _resign_?”

“Or get transferred. I’ll get it, if–”

She’d be lying if she said she’d never thought about kissing him. Neither of them has celibate, in the last two years, but it’s hard to have serious relationships. He’d come closer than she had, going out with one of the bartenders from the lounge for a few months before they decided to end it.

Which had made it easy for Clarke; she’s not always good at realizing how she feels, but jealousy is easy. Natural.

His mouth is warm under hers when she surges forward, his cheek stubbly beneath her hand. He tastes like whiskey and takes a second to realize what’s happening, but then he’s pulling her in, kissing her back, and Clarke settles in.

“Don’t leave,” she says. “I don’t want to find a new first officer. You’re good at it.”

“Don’t kiss me just to get me to stay.” His voice is teasing, all warmth and happiness, and she leans back in to kiss him again.

“If you stay, I’ll kiss you more.”

“Sounds like a pretty good deal,” he says. “Don’t do anything that stupid and reckless again,” he says, making his voice firm. “We need you, Captain.”

“We, huh?”

“The whole crew.”

“You shouldn’t do anything that stupid again either,” she says. “I need you.”

“Just you?” he teases.

“Everyone. But especially me.”

This time, he kisses her first, warm and long. “I especially need you too,” he says. “So don’t get engaged to any more alien princes.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

*

The next time, it’s an alien _princess_ , and Bellamy laughs so hard he nearly cries. But he also gets her out of it.

They can do this for three more years. No problem.


	27. Some Speak of the Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [crownandsword](http://crownandsword.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: Bellarke -- One of them is from the past and accidentally time travels to the present. They decide to stay in the present, together.

Bellamy never minds waking up to find a pretty girl–or boy, or nonbinary person–in his apartment. Some people, he knows, prefer for their one-night stands to leave before breakfast, but he’s never felt that way. He always spends the next few hours fretting over whether or not they figured out how to get home via public transportation and idly worrying that they stole something from him. Plus, if they stay, sometimes there’s bonus, morning sex, and he’s always down for that.

As it turns out, the only time he doesn’t like waking up to find an attractive stranger in his apartment is when he didn’t go to bed with said stranger. Also, when the stranger is _screaming_.

His first thought, when the noise jostles him out of sleep, is that it’s Octavia, because–well, honestly, it’s not like he really expects his sister to show up in his apartment, screaming, at seven a.m. on a Sunday, but he can’t imagine anyone else doing it either.

By the time he realizes it wasn’t her, he’s already staggering down the hall to the source of the noise, and he figures he might as well keep going.

The girl in the kitchen wasn’t screaming for _long_ , and he thinks it might have been more properly classified as a _yelp_ , on further contemplation. Which makes sense because, when he finds her, the dog is sniffing her leg, and she seems to be looking for a weapon.

“Jesus, you’re the worst guard dog ever,” he tells Pandora. “If she steals my stuff, I’m blaming you.”

Pandora rushes over to greet him instead, and he absently scratches her as he watches the girl. She _is_ pretty, wavy blonde hair and big blue eyes, with a mole on her lip. She’s wearing what looks like a nightgown, a long, old-fashioned one, and staring at his bare chest. Pretty openly. It’s always nice to be appreciated, but–wow is this beyond weird.

“Can I help you?” he asks, pointed, and her gaze snaps back up to his eyes.

“You’re not wearing any clothing!” she barks, like it’s an accusation.

“You’re the one who broke into my house while I was asleep,” he says. “And I’m wearing boxers. Seriously, who the fuck are you and what are you doing here?”

She hesitates, worrying her lip. Maybe it’s weird that he has no interest in calling the police or anything, but–the girl looks exhausted, freaked out, and just as confused as he feels. Plus, he wants to believe that Pandora has _some_ instincts, and if she was really trying to steal from him, his dog wouldn’t be cozying up.

Denial is cool.

“I was exploring my new home,” she says, slow and cautious. “I went into a closet and it went–farther than I expected.” She jerks her head to the pantry door. “I opened that door and I was here.”

“That’s a pantry,” he says, dry.

“And I came through a closet,” she snaps. “Obviously something is wrong. I don’t know what happened, but it wasn’t _normal_.” Another moment of hesitation, she adds, “And there’s more wrong than that.”

“Yeah?” He goes over to the coffee pot and gets it started. “You want coffee?”

“Please,” she says. “And could you–I am aware that this is your home, and I’ve barged in, but–might you be willing to dress yourself?”

He usually doesn’t get much more dressed than boxers until he has to leave the apartment on weekends, but her eyes keep darting down to his chest and she’s flushing, so he figures it’s probably the least he can do. If she’s not comfortable with mostly naked guys, he’s fine with not being one. “Sure, give me a sec. You okay with Pandora, or you want me to lock her in my room?”

“Pandora?”

“The dog.”

“Oh. She’s friendly?”

“Yeah, she’s a sweetheart. Just whistle and call her and she’ll come over.”

She kneels down and whistles, cooing softly, and the dog goes over to lick her. The girl looks a little more relaxed now, which is probably good. He has no fucking idea what’s happening or what her game is, but–he doesn’t actually think she’s lying to him. So he’d rather she was feeling relaxed than stressed out. It’s just easier.

He tugs on a pair of pajama pants and a t-shirt, and grabs some of O’s clothes for the girl, just in case she’d be more comfortable with more layers.

She’s still petting Pandora when he gets back, but she offers him an actual smile, so he figures she’s doing better.

“You want clothes?” he asks, holding up the bundle. “Or are you not staying?”

“I suppose I should see if I _can_ go back,” she says. “You did say I came through your pantry.”

“And you’re sticking with that story,” he says, grabbing a couple mugs and pouring coffee. “Have a seat. Or check the pantry first. Your call.”

“Give me the coffee first,” she says, and he laughs.

“Yeah, fair enough. Do you take milk or sugar?”

“No, thank you.” She bites her lip. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Bellamy Blake.” He offers her the mug. “And you are?”

“Clarke Griffin.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Same to you.” She takes a long drink of the coffee, and makes another face.

“Bad?”

“It’s not the usual blend I have.”

“Milk or sugar?”

“No, I’ll get used to it.” She lets out a breath, puts the mug on the table, and opens the pantry door. She doesn’t look pleased when she says, “I don’t think this is your pantry.”

He frowns, goes over to look over her shoulder, and– “Holy shit,” he says.

“Are you a _sailor_?” she asks. “Who says those things in front of a lady?”

“Basically everyone,” he says. His pantry has been replaced with a long, dark corridor, leading to parts unknown. So–yeah. Magic. Definitely magic. “Not to be weird, but–what year is it where you’re from?” It feels like the right time to ask.

“Eighteen-eighty-six,” she says.

“Yeah. Okay. So–you’re a hundred and thirty years in the future,” he says. “So you might want to go back through the pantry.”

She stiffens, but she doesn’t move. “What would you say if I said I didn’t want to?”

He considers the question. “Are you hungry?” he settles on.

Her smile is relieved. “I am, yes.”

“Cool. Eggs?”

“Thank you.”

*

Once she’s on his couch in his sister’s clothes with a plate of eggs in her lap and the dog looking at her longingly, hoping for scraps, she tells him her story.

“My father died recently, and my mother is worried about our finances. We’re rich, but not like we used to be. So we’ve taken a smaller home and she’s set up a marriage for me.” She lets out a breath. “And I hate my fiance. It’s a political match, good for my family, but–he’s awful, and I can’t sleep, thinking about the wedding. My family just moved, so I’ve been exploring the house in the night. I heard my mother looking for me and I didn’t want to talk to her, so I ducked into the closet. And when I could keep going, I did.”

“What’s wrong with the guy?”

“Everything. He’s–awful. Cruel to his servants, lecherous, and–” She shudders. “His family is rich, and he’s always gotten what he wanted. Now he wants me.”

“Jesus, that’s fucked up.”

She snorts out a small laugh. “Is this normal?”

“Totally. And I’m pretty sure people swore in the eighteen hundreds.”

“Fuck,” she says, and he grins. “Of course we do. But not in mixed company. Especially not in front of a woman you just met.”

“Yeah, fuck that,” he says. “So–you hate your fiance.”

“Deeply. And I don’t know how to talk to my mother about it. My father would have understood, but since he passed away, I don’t know what to do.”

“You can come here whenever you want,” he offers. “You know, if you need to get away. I’ll miss the pots and pans that were in the pantry, but whatever. It’s fine. I’ll show you how the TV works.”

“TV?”

He laughs. “The future is full of cool stuff.”

She pauses. “Somehow, I don’t think you mean temperature.”

“Oh, no. We’ll work on slang too.”

She takes a sip of her coffee. “How often are you imagining I’ll come here?”

“How often do you think you’ll need to?”

“More often than you want me to.”

He nearly squeezes her shoulder, but he’s not sure she’d be cool with that. “You’re welcome any time. I mean it.”

“And you just–believe me,” she says, sounding curious.

“You did show me a magical corridor in my pantry,” he points out. “Hard to be a skeptic after that.”

She laughs. “I suppose.”

“Besides, the dog likes you. That’s all I need.”

Her smile is small and private, and he almost feels bad for seeing it. “Thank you,” she says. “For the eggs. And the hospitality.”

“Like I said, whenever you need.”

*

It’s weird, having a part-time, time-traveling roommate. Clarke tends to show up at night, after her mother has gone to sleep, and they’ll sit on the couch and watch TV and drink beer and chat. When her mother goes out of town, she’ll come for days at a time, exploring the city with him, eyes lighting up with wonder at everything.

Those are his favorite days.

It’s great, except for all the times he doesn’t have. He wants to introduce her to his friends, to his sister, to show her _everything_ , and every time he thinks about it, it makes his heart ache. Because–she’s not his to keep. She’s not from here. She’s just visiting. She’s got a whole life at home, and just because she’s running away from it, it doesn’t mean–well, it doesn’t mean she wants to give up everything.

Just because he thinks she’d be better off, it doesn’t mean she wants that.

It’s been about three months when she shows up with her arms full of silver dishes and a determined look on her face. It’s almost midnight, and he’d almost given up hope of seeing her tonight.

“Hi,” he says, when she deposits the silver on the table. “What’s up?”

“Those would be antiques, right? The silver.”

“Uh, probably. Why?”

“Because I’m getting married next week, and I don’t want to be. And if I’m going to stay here, I’m going to need–things. Money, and an apartment, and clothing, and–I assume I could buy some sort of documentation, and–”

“You want to stay here?” he asks.

All the righteous passion drains out of her, and she sags, looking sheepish. “I didn’t actually say that, did I?”

“No. But–you should.” He exhales. “Stay, I mean. Not say it. Fuck, I’ve been wanting to tell you to for weeks. We can find you a place, you can stay here until–”

“Fuck it,” Clarke says, and she throws the dishes down on the table and fumbles for his shirt, gets purchase and pulls him down to kiss him, off-center and inexperienced, but the intent is really all he needs. He wraps his arms around her and kisses back, and she grins into it, relaxing until she practically melts against him. It’s everything he’s been waiting for for months, and apparently she has too.

“You can stay here forever,” he says. “Never leave.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” she says.“My note to my mother did say I was running away to live in sin.” She pauses. “I said with a woman, though. Just so I’d be as disgraceful as possible.”

“What, you think she’s going to travel through time and find you?” he teases.

“She wanted me to marry a man I loathe. She can handle thinking I’m a complete disappointment.” She rests her head against his chest, still smiling. “And I stole half her silver.”

“Yeah, we’re still going to sell that.” He laughs, slightly disbelieving. “Fuck, I don’t know what we’re going to tell my friends.”

“Girlfriend who lived in Canada,” she supplies. She’s been watching too much TV; he loves it. “We’ll think of something, right?”

“Definitely.” He kisses her hair. “Hey, you want to see how comfortable my bed is?”

“I’d love to.”

*

Three weeks later, Bellamy opens up the pantry without thinking and finds that instead of an ominous corridor leading to his girlfriend’s probably enraged mother, it’s his pantry again, full of pots he almost never uses and cereal he forgets to eat.

“Huh,” he says.

“What?”

“Apparently you’re really stuck here.”

Clarke wraps her arms around him and props her chin on his shoulder, looking at the pantry she’s never seen before. “Oh. Good.”

The dog sniffs the newly returned items in confusion, and Bellamy grins. “Yeah. Awesome.”


	28. Kiss You on the Mouth and Tell You I'm Your Biggest Fan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [laviecammecicammeca](http://laviecammecicammeca.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: Bellamy goes to a con mainly to see his fave Wells who he has a lowkey fanboy crush on and ends up also meeting his less popular co-star Clarke who he lowkey kind of finds cute but can't figure out if she was actually flirting w/ him or was just being really nice and he goes broke from buying selfies and an autograph from her the next con days trying to figure it out lmao

Clarke is used to being the unpopular one.

In all honesty, it’s kind of nice. She’s seen how the really popular women get treated at conventions, and while she could do without some of the misogynistic slurs that get hurled at her on twitter, she’d rather have a small group of dedicated fans while the rest of the fandom mostly ignores her than have to deal with people who are always asking to see her tits.

Plus, _Wells_ is the popular one. Which is, honestly, the most amazing thing ever. It’s awesome enough that she gets to work on a show with her best friend, and even better that said best friend is incredibly popular and everyone loves him.

So, yeah. Clarke’s job? Awesome. Clarke’s fan experience? Fairly awesome. Clarke’s appreciation of Wells’ discomfort with being incredibly popular with fans? Off the charts.

But by the end of the day, she is getting a little bored.

She’s doodling on her own table, just a nice, swirling pattern of vines, when someone says, “No one? Seriously?”

She glances up and sees a really hot guy standing by her table, head cocked. He’s got messy black hair and deep brown eyes behind his glasses, with a scattering of freckles all over his face. Plus, really ripped and wearing a tight _Final Fantasy VIII_ t-shirt.

Honestly, if she’d known guys who looked like _this_ came to cons, she would have joined the circuit earlier.

“What?” she asks, because she’s just a little bit distracted. She wasn’t expecting to talk to anyone this late in the day, let alone a hot guy. She saw some cute girls, but most of them were obviously with their boyfriends, so she didn’t really want to flirt. But now the day is winding down, and she wouldn’t mind having some actual fun. Just to break up the last hour of boredom.

“I thought you’d at least have a line. I had to wait forty minutes to see Wells Jaha.”

“Everyone’s tired of being here by the time they get to him,” she says. “Or no one wants to talk to the disposable love interest.”

To her delight, he looks caught somewhere between annoyance and embarrassment, like it’s something he’s maybe thought, but doesn’t like hearing people say. Which is more encouraging than anything else.

The thing is, Clarke knows her character isn’t particularly exciting. She thinks she’ll do better in the third season, because the show is moving away from the unpopular love triangle and she’s getting more of her own plots, but for now, she was the least popular side of the love triangle and had the least to do outside of it, so she gets it.

But she’d still rather people felt bad for feeling that way. Andrea’s got a lot of _potential_. She _should_ be cool. And it’s not her fault the writers dropped the ball on her character development last season. Blame should go to the people who deserve it.

He looks uncomfortable enough she can’t help pressing her advantage. “But, honestly, I thought this top would help me a little more.” She gives a demonstrative juggle, and the guy looks like he’s about to choke on his tongue.

“Uh,” he says.

“Yeah, that was my reaction when I saw myself in the mirror this morning. Not to be conceited or anything.”

He clears his throat; there’s a little color on his cheeks, which–okay, he’s at a con, so he’s got to be a nerd. But she sort of assumed he’d have a little game, looking like that. Someone must have hit on him before. “If you’re really trying to get attention with cleavage,” he says, “which, seriously, I don’t recommend, go for cosplay.”

She has to laugh. “Why don’t you recommend it?”

“My sister’s a cosplayer and I see the guys who follow her around.” His voice is a little gruff, and he’s not making eye contact. “Is it sad that I think it’s probably better to be ignored at one of these?”

“I’m not making any money if I’m ignored,” she points out, but it’s not really a serious complaint. She’s had a steady flow of people, but hers is a stream and Wells’ is a deluge. But she’s not worried about breaking even.

“Oh, shit,” he says, fumbling for his wallet. “I guess I should–”

“Hey, whoa, no.” She ducks her head, tucking her hair back behind her ear when it falls in her face. “That’s not–I wasn’t fishing for that. Honestly, I do fine. I was just teasing.”

“Yeah, but–I should be paying for an autograph, right?”

Her handler is on a coffee run, so it’s not like there’s anyone there to even collect the money. Apparently it’s considered tacky for the celebrities to do it themselves, and Clarke has to admit, she would feel really weird actually accepting this random guy’s cash.

“Did you even want an autograph?” she asks “I won’t be offended if you don’t. I wouldn’t pay myself thirty dollars to sign something.”

He frowns into his wallet. “Uh, apparently I already spent my con budget today.”

“How much was your con budget?”

“No comment.”

“What did you buy?”

“Also no comment.”

“It can’t be that embarrassing. You’re already at a fan convention, you got Wells’ autograph, and you’re wearing a Final Fantasy VIII t-shirt, and I know lots of internet nerds don’t like that one, so you probably spent a lot of today arguing with people about your life choices.”

He lets out a surprised laugh. “You’re not actually wrong.”

She pats the chair next to hers. “So, show me your loot.”

He sits, squints at her. “How bored are you right now?”

“Incredibly. You’re the one who decided to talk to me. So now you have to put up with my boredom. Also, I didn’t really get a chance to check out the con, so I don’t know what cool stuff they’ve got. Fill me in.”

“I assume you already know what Wells Jaha’s autograph looks like.”

“Yeah, but which ridiculous headshot did you pick? These are the important questions, um–whatever your name is.”

“Bellamy,” he says. “Nice to meet you. And I didn’t get a headshot. There’s one of the tie-in comics I really like about Xavier’s origins, so I got him to sign that.”

“So, you’re a giant super fan, huh?”

“He’s an amazing actor,” he says, a little defensively, and Clarke’s smile kicks up a couple notches.

“You’re a _Wells_ superfan? Did you buy any Xavier merch? What do they have?”

Bellamy shows her all of his con purchases, most of which are video-game related, and they have a decent conversation about favorite Final Fantasy games and the best Pokemon regions. When they announce the hall closing, she’s actually a little sad to see him go. He’s cool, even on top of being cute.

“Thanks for hanging out with me,” she says. “I know I’m not anyone’s favorite.”

“You seem weirdly convinced that hanging out with a celebrity was some hardship and not something I’m going to brag about to everyone I know and a bunch of people who don’t. No one’s going to believe me.”

“So take a selfie,” she says. “Come on, photographic proof is Celebrity Stalking 101.”

“Why are you good at celebrity stalking?” he grumbles, but when she loops her arm around his neck, he fumbles for his phone. He gets a couple pictures, and she gets one too, just because–well, it was fun. And he’s _really_ hot. Monty’s going to be jealous.

“Do you know how many celebrities I meet?” she asks, once they’re done. “Just because I’m famous doesn’t mean I’m not a fan too. Too bad you’re leaving, or I’d show off my awesome selfies.” She gives him a genuine smile. “But really. Thanks.”

“That’s my line,” he says. “Nice to meet you, Clarke.”

“Have a good con, Bellamy.”

*

According to Wells, Saturday is always busier than Friday, and Clarke finds it’s true. They have a panel in the morning, and no one asks her any questions, but she at least gets to answer the group questions, and cracks a few jokes that get laughs. Her lines are longer, and the day goes a lot faster.

Bellamy shows up just after lunch, waiting in line like everyone else, with a nice cast photo that Wells has already signed.

“Hi,” she says. “You refreshed your budget?”

“Yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck. “My sister thought I should get a cast photo signed by everyone. Since so many of you guys are here.”

“Good call. How’s day two? Did you come to the panel, or had something else going?”

“It was pretty good. Sorry you didn’t get any questions.”

“Honestly, I wasn’t really expecting any. Wells and I talked, we had a pretty good idea of what was going to happen. I’m working on being cool, so if people like me next season, they can look back and see I was cool at cons.”

“That’s a lot of planning just to make people think you’re cool.”

Clarke’s handler clears her throat and Clarke realizes she still has a line. “Well, that’s the only way it’s going to happen,” she says, and signs the picture quickly. “Have fun spending the rest of your budget on Rinoa Heartily merch.”

He snorts. “Thanks. Have fun pretending you’re popular.”

“Always do.”

It puts her in a good mood for the next half hour; she’d been hoping he’d stop back to say hi, and it’s kind of cute, that he got an autograph too.

So when he’s back around two, it’s a total surprise.

“Hi, Octavia,” she says, and falters whens he looks up and sees it’s him. “Middle name?”

He smiles, a little sheepish. “Apparently when my sister said I should get a group shot, she meant for her, so I need another one.”

“It’s nice of you to spend your con getting stuff for your sister. If the line for me is this long, the line for everyone else has to be unreal.”

He shrugs, a little awkward. “There are only so many things I want to buy and so many panels I care about going to. If O doesn’t give me something to do for her while she’s cosplaying, I just end up sitting on the floor and playing Hearthstone on my phone.”

“So, what I’m getting is that you go to cons because your sister does sexy cosplay and you’re overprotective, and you have maybe a day of hardcore nerd in you and then you get bored and anti-social.”

He opens and closes his mouth a couple times. “Wow. That was actually kind of creepily accurate.”

“I’m good at reading people.” She slides the picture back to him. “Don’t strangle any perverts. Unless they really deserve it.”

He salutes. “Trust me, this isn’t my first rodeo.”

The third time he shows up, he has an Andrea origin comic for her to sign.

“I didn’t have it yet,” he says, gruff. “I saw it in the vendor hall. If I’m going to buy it, I might as well get it signed, right?”

She smiles. “You know, if you wanted to hang out, all you had to do was ask.”

He deflates visibly. “Really?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve been buying autographs all day just to chat with me.”

“I won’t tell you that,” he says, and she laughs.

He’s really, stupidly cute. “So, I just made ninety bucks off this awkward nerd,” she says. “Did you have dinner plans?”

“I didn’t,” he says. “Do I now?”

“I hope so, yeah.” She pats the seat next to her. “Want to hang out with a celebrity?”

“No,” he says, but he does sit. “But I’d love to hang out with you.”

She grins. “Even better.”


	29. War Was In Color

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [lolday-n-lolnight](http://lolday-n-lolnight.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: Animorphs AU for Bellarke

At first, Clarke spends a lot of time not being herself. She morphs into a dog, because the emotions are easy. She runs and wags her tail, lets herself not think for two hours at a time, and then has to become herself again, a mess of complicated emotions.

She doesn’t talk to any of the others for a week, and it feels like–well, it feels necessary. She doesn’t need a break from them, exactly, but she needs a break from _everything_. After the week, the first one she calls is Bellamy, and he comes over and sits on her couch, staring at the TV neither of them can be bothered to turn on.

“Have you seen Octavia?” she asks, finally.

“Not since you have.” He sighs. “It’s not like she liked being human much, anyway.”

“No, but–she loves you. She always has.”

“Yeah, and look what it got us.” His mouth twists up. “Not–we won. I know we won.”

But no one told them how hard winning a war was. Or no one told her in the right way. She knows about veterans, about PTSD, but she knew about them for _other_ people. She was never going to be a soldier, let alone a soldier in a war no one else knew about for so long. And now they’ve won, and everyone is happy. That’s how it works. 

The war ends, and you’re happy.

She rests her head on Bellamy’s shoulder, closing her eyes, and after a second, she feels him lean back.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she says. “What happened to Lincoln. Your sister needs someone to blame, and she picked you, but that doesn’t make it your fault.”

He huffs, not really that close to a laugh, but the closest he’s come in–Clarke doesn’t know how long.

She remembers when it was fun, in the early days. The sheer joy of transformation, of experience. The novelty of being something else, of tails, of claws, of flight, of echolocation, of feeling like _magic_.

But they weren’t in that story, and it’s been a long time since that was how she felt.

“Trust me, if I could talk her into blaming you instead of me, I’d do it in a heartbeat. The next time I see her, I’m throwing you under the bus.” Her smile only lasts a second, because before she can respond, he adds, “But I’d have to see her first.”

“She’ll be back.”

“She doesn’t even want to be human anymore.”

“I know.” She lets out a breath. “So, what do you want to do?”

“You’re going to need to narrow that down.”

“My mom already has a job lined up for me in DC, any time I want it.” She feels her face twist, and she’s glad he can’t see it. But he squeezes her shoulders, so he knows anyway. Her mother is supportive, she is, but it took less than twenty-four hours from the end of the war for Abby to switch from _mother_ to _politician_ , and Clarke could have used more of the former and less of the latter. For basically her entire life. “There’s one for you too. For any of us who want them. We’re the only experts they’ve got.”

He’s tense, like she expected he would be. “So, you’re going and you want me to come.”

“No.” She sighs. “If you go, I will too. I’m not leaving you, Bellamy. We’ve lost enough. I’m not going anywhere without you.”

“Oh.” His voice is thick, but his posture has eased, at least a little. “I guess it’s good to have options, right?”

“Yeah. I think we’re going to have a lot of them.”

*

It’s easier, after that. She still morphs a lot, but she morphs _with_ Bellamy. They’ll go to the park together, and she’ll be a dog for a while, and then he will, and they play fetch and rub each other’s ears. As humans, affection is still awkward, charged with the kind of baggage that comes from being teenagers, from the awareness of every place their skin touches.

As much as she wants the comfort, she’s not ready to think about the things she’d pretty sure had been building between them, before Lexa charmed her, before he met Gina, before the betrayals and the losses and the war that consumed everything.

Neither of them needs more than a best friend right now, and that’s what he is to her. That’s what he’s been almost since the beginning: the most important person, the non-negotiable one.

So he’ll morph into a dog, the big, sleek hound he always is, and put his head in her lap, and she’ll pet him until it’s time to turn back, and he returns the favor.

Two weeks later, Raven gets out of the hospital, with a leg that will never get better. They call up Monty too, and the four of them start having movie nights once a week, rotating who chooses the film. Raven always picks alien invasion movies, so they can find all the things that went differently in the _real_ alien invasion. Monty favors shows about baby animals, which aren’t technically movies, but no one cares, because watching two hours of kittens rolling around is basically amazing. Clarke starts them going through the entire Disney animated collection–theatrical releases only, and everyone else gets overt racism vetoes–and Bellamy likes costume dramas, the more inaccurate the better, so he can pause frequently to go off on rants about history.

None of them want to go to DC, but she and Bellamy agree to serve as official government consultants remotely. Lexa requests her as the Earthen Ambassador, and she turns it down, watches the way Bellamy’s jaw clenches and relaxes, once he hears she isn’t going.

“You forgive her?” he asks.

It’s an interesting question. Clarke understands why Lexa pretended to be human. She even understands why she made the deal she did, selling out humanity to save her own planet. But it was short-sighted, it was dangerous, and it was _wrong_ , and even if Clarke understands, it doesn’t mean she agrees.

“Yeah,” she says. “I forgive her. But that doesn’t mean I ever want to see her again.”

He pauses, looks down, nods once, like he was really worried about that. “I guess not.” He swallows. “I think that’s going to happen with O. When she comes back.”

“Your sister loves you more than I ever loved Lexa,” she says. “But–it might still be what happens, yeah.”

“Jesus. You’re so bad at this reassurance thing. You can’t just tell me my sister’s going to come home, morph back into a human, and stay?”

“If you wanted someone to say that, you wouldn’t ask me,” she points out, and his mouth tugs up in half a smile. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” she can’t help adding. “If she doesn’t forgive you, it doesn’t mean you don’t deserve it. You don’t.”

“You know how much time you spend telling me I didn’t do anything wrong?”

“As much as I think I can get away with,” she says, and that gets a full smile, one that makes her heart ache. It’s not like he’s _ever_ smiled much. Before they were chosen as soldiers, she knows his life was already difficult. He raised his sister almost alone, his mother out of the picture long before she was possessed and killed in the war, and Clarke knows he feels more twisted up about everything than she does because he was happier to get his powers to begin with.

It’s a stupid reason to feel guilty, but they haven’t gotten to _that_ conversation yet.

“Thanks,” he says, soft, and she lets herself squeeze his hand.

“Any time.”

*

Octavia comes to her first, for which Clarke is actually unspeakably grateful. She and Clarke were always friendly, if not close, and Clarke was as distressed as everyone else–except for Bellamy, of course–when she disappeared in the early days of the war. She came back having lost her human form, missing the transformation window, and accompanied by Lincoln, a new animorph she’d found.

It was never the same after that; it would have been easy for her to return to human as her default form, but she didn’t want to. She felt better, being a hawk, she said, and it drove a wedge between her and Bellamy, and a wedge between all of them, because everyone had to take a side.

Clarke took Bellamy’s, of course; the only time she’s ever taken a side other than his was before Lexa betrayed them, and she learned her lesson from that.

It’s six months after the end of the war when Octavia lights on her window, and Clarke offers her arm so she can rub her face against Clarke’s hand and shift. She looks uncomfortable in her human body, mostly naked and unsure how to stand, and Clarke finds her a robe and tries to figure out what to say next.

“Coffee?” she finally settles on.

“Sure.” She leans against the counter next to the coffee pot, arms crossed over her chest, looking around the apartment with bright, darting eyes. Clarke wonders if the action would strike her as birdlike if she hadn’t been a hawk for so many years. “Nice place,” Octavia offers. “When did you get it?”

“A few days after the war. You weren’t the only one who didn’t want to go home.” She knows she should leave it there, but she can’t. “But my mom knows where I am.”

“How’s he doing?” Octavia asks.

“Shitty.”

“Are you guys fucking yet?”

“No.”

“That’s probably why he’s doing shitty.”

Clarke counts to ten, passes Octavia a mug of coffee, and then says, “You really don’t get to blame me for this one. Not this time.” She and Bellamy have an imperfect past, but she’s here for him now, and she’s not planning to ever be anywhere else. “Are you coming back?”

Octavia looks down at her coffee, milk and a sugar, just like she always took it. “I don’t think I can,” she admits, so soft. “I’ve never been very good at being a person, Clarke. I don’t think–if I don’t have to be one, I don’t want to be.”

It’s easy to forget that Octavia is younger than she is, like it’s easy to forget that Bellamy is older. Little differences like that just never felt like they mattered much. But she looks small and scared now, and Clarke feels her irritation tempering, if not abating.

“And you want to know how to tell your brother.”

“It’s not about _him_ ,” she says. “Not everything in my life is about him.”

“Everything in his life is about you, though.”

Octavia looks at her askance. “Not everything. Not anymore. You get him better than I ever did. And he gets you better than he gets me. It’s not like–I’m going to visit. I just don’t know how to make him believe me. That he didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Yeah,” Clarke agrees. “If you ever figure it out, you can let me know.”

She smiles a little. “Back at you.”

They finish their coffee in mostly companionable silence, and Octavia hugs her before she goes.

“Don’t be a stranger,” Clarke says. And then, “Try not to hurt him.”

“Thanks,” she says, and then she returns the robe and she’s gone, a hawk again, tearing through the sky toward her brother.

*

Bellamy doesn’t call before he comes over, and he arrives the same way his sister did: at her window, as a hawk. She opens the window and finds the t-shirt and jeans he always leaves in her closet while he changes back.

As always, she doesn’t let herself watch him get dressed. That’s important.

“She talked to you,” he says.

“Yeah.”

“She said she’ll be back more. Every few weeks.”

“And?”

“And I’ll take what I can get.”

She closes her eyes, because–that’s what Bellamy _does_ , all too often. He takes what he can get, and doesn’t think to ask for more.

“I think we should go to college,” she says, finally.

“College?”

“We can afford it.”

“What would I do at college?”

“Study. Get a degree. Figure out what you want to do with the rest of your life. That’s what I’d do.”

He pauses. “And is this another thing that you’re only going to do if I do?”

“I might do it without you,” she admits. “But I’d do it here. Unless you want to move.” She worries her lip, lets herself look up at him. “You’re stuck with me, Bellamy. I mean it. I’m not–I don’t want to do anything, unless I can do it with you.”

His mouth twitches, and then–miracle of miracles–he laughs. “Sorry,” he says, like he hasn’t realized she’s delighted yet. “You just–you’re always so fucking serious about it. You think I don’t believe you?”

“Do you?”

He sobers, considers her, and then he cups her face in both his hands and kisses her. She thinks it’s supposed to be quick, a question, a verification, but she tugs him in and doesn’t let go, and he doesn’t try to leave.

When he finally pulls back, she’s almost forgotten the question, and it takes her a second to remember what he means when he says, “Now I do.” He brushes his lips against hers again, and then once more. “I could think about college.” His hand slides up her side, and it feels like she’s coming alive again under her fingers. “Maybe tomorrow.”

The word’s never sounded so good. “Sure,” she agrees. “Tomorrow.”


	30. Out on the Lawn There Arose Such a Clatter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [craniumhurricane](http://craniumhurricane.tumblr.com/). Prompt: For Bellarke: I live below you and I was minding my own business watching the snow fall out the window when I saw a body fall!? Are you really putting up Christmas lights now!??

“So, you’re going to need to talk me through this one.”

Bellamy blinks a few times, trying to get his bearings. He knows what happened, but his brain is having trouble putting it together. Which is not really surprising, given he knows the following things: he used to be on the roof, he slipped, and now he’s on the ground, on his back, staring at the sky. Which means there was a fall in there.

Also, his body hurts, but that’s somehow not nearly as bad as the fact that his very cute downstairs neighbor is leaning over him, looking kind of exasperated and amused.

On the bright side, he still knows the word _exasperated_. Which means that his brain isn’t completely fried.

“Huh?” he says, blinking a few times.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” she asks.

It takes him a second. “You’re wearing mittens.”

She grins, quick and bright. “I am wearing mittens. Good job.” She pulls the mitten off and shows him three fingers. “Now?”

“Three.”

“What year is it?”

“Twenty-sixteen.”

“President?”

He winces, reflexive. “No comment.”

“Yeah, your brain’s working fine.” She puts her mitten back on and offers her hand. He takes it and lets her pull him up, and his brain feels like it sloshes around in his skull. Like in old sci-fi movies, when mad scientists keep brains in jars. That’s what’s happening in his head right now. “Or not,” he hears the girl say. “Can you stand by yourself?”

“Maybe.”

“You know a bunch of Christmas lights fell on top of you?”

He considers the question. “In theory.”

She snorts. “In theory?”

“I was hanging lights, so they had to go somewhere when I fell. It makes sense they fell on me.”

“Okay, well–try not to fall over while I pick them up, okay?”

He nods, which is not a great idea, and doesn’t watch her as she ducks down to collect his lights, mostly because he’s a little worried that he’ll do that thing where he follows his eyes wherever they go, so if he looks down, he’ll fall over.

His brain is definitely working, but he’s not sure it’s working _right_.

“Okay,” says the girl. Her arms are full of Christmas lights. “Come on.”

“Where am I coming?” he asks, following her in spite of his confusion.

“My place,” she says. “I’m thinking you probably shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“Probably smart,” he agrees. “Sorry. I think it’s mild. The, uh–concussion.”

“Yeah, I do too. But, no offense, I don’t really trust your judgement right now, so I’m going to be responsible for all diagnoses.” She glances over her shoulder. “What’s your name?”

“Bellamy.”

“I really hope that’s right, because I don’t actually know the answer.

He has to smile. “I hope so too. If I don’t know my name, I’m more fucked than I thought.”

Her laugh is bright and tinkling, like bells, which is both pretty and seasonally appropriate. “Yeah, you’re right. I doubt you’re that far gone.” She gets the door unlocked and holds it open for him, and he winces a little at the brightness of the light. “Shit, sorry. Just close your eyes. I’m going to leave your lights here, okay? I doubt anyone’s going to steal them. Here, take my arm.”

“I don’t even know your name,” he observes.

“Clarke.”

“Clarke?”

“Yeah.”

“Like Superman?”

“But with an _e_ at the end. C-L-A-R-K-E.”

“C-L-A-R-K-E,” he repeats, mostly to make sure he can.

“Is this your first concussion?” she asks.

“As far as I know, yeah.”

“How’s the rest of your body feeling?”

“Like I fell off a roof.”

“Is that what happened? That’s what it looked like, but–” She huffs, and glares at him as she leads him into her apartment. “Who the fuck puts Christmas lights up at nine p.m. on a Wednesday?”

“Me, obviously,” he says, and she snorts.

“Okay, yeah, but _why_?”

“It’s when I had the free time. It’s not like–” He pauses, shuts his mouth, and Clarke laughs.

“You were going to say it wasn’t dangerous, right?”

“I’m pretty sure I could have fallen off the roof during the day,” he says. “There was ice. I don’t know if I would have seen it if it was light out.”

“I didn’t know it was so important to get lights up.”

“I like lights,” he says. She’s gotten him onto her couch, which is very soft and comfortable, and disappeared from his direct line of sight. Without her face, he can’t get much of a sense of her reaction, and the silence _feels_ heavy. She’s probably thinking he’s a moron, which he is, but he still feels the need to offer some more context. “My stepdad hated Christmas stuff. He never let us decorate. So once me and my sister got away from him, we started doing, like–all the lights. The most lights. To show that asshole.”

Clarke sits down next to him on the couch, handing him a glass of water. “Okay, that’s understandable. Spite’s a good motivator. But it was still incredibly dangerous. You’re lucky I found you.”

He frowns. “Yeah, how did you find me? Are you a stalker?”

“It’s snowing,” she says, amused. “First snow of the season. I was watching it. And then suddenly I saw a body.”

He winces. “Sorry. That must have been pretty freaky.”

“Yeah, it really wasn’t what I was expecting,” she says. “I thought my life might have finally turned into a murder procedural, but nope. You survived.”

“Lucky me.” He glances at her. “I haven’t thanked you yet, have I? That’s a genuine question. I’m not totally sure.”

“You are really not making me feel confident about my decision to not take you to a hospital.” She sighs. “Do you have insurance? How dizzy are you?”

He has to smile. “I really think it’s not bad. I’m a little confused, but not, like–fuck, you should definitely take me to the hospital.”

“I’m getting mixed signals here,” she says, dry.

“No, sorry, just–I was gonna say give it half an hour, but I wasn’t thinking. You should just take me now so you can get back to whatever you were doing.”

“I was watching the snow fall,” she points out. “So I don’t honestly mind having you hang out. If you still need to go to the hospital later, I’ll take you.”

“You sure? I have insurance. I can just hang out in the hospital.”

“Honestly, if I took you to the hospital, I’d wait until you were done anyway,” she says. “So you should stay here. If it gets worse, I’ll take you in.”

“Okay,” he says. “Uh–really, thanks. I might have frozen to death if you didn’t come out.”

“You weren’t actually unconscious, so I like your odds for living. Are you nauseous? Do you want food?”

“Just water is good, thanks. And–whatever you want to do. Netflix, reading, anything is fine. I don’t want to impose any more than I have to.”

She considers, and then twists around, regarding him. “Anything I want?”

“Are you going to make me regret it?” he asks, wary.

“You live upstairs. I just moved, I don’t really know anyone. So–tell me about you.” She grins. “As a bonus, it’ll test your memory. I already know you have a sister and a shitty stepdad.”

“Those are the big ones,” he says. “Are you going to tell me about yourself?”

“Yeah. But I won’t be offended if you don’t remember. Concussion.” She nudges her foot with his, encouraging. “So, how old are you?”

*

As it turns out, Clarke was pre-med in college, so she actually has some decent understanding of whether or not he actually _needs_ to go to the hospital, and apparently he doesn’t as long as he promises to call in sick and go to the doctor in the morning. It’s definitely cheaper than hitting the ER, even taking into account having to burn a sick day, and the doctor confirms basically what they already knew: he had a very mild concussion but seems to have recovered, but if he experiences follow-up symptoms, he should come back in, but the doctor isn’t very worried.

He is not, under any circumstances, allowed to put up Christmas lights again, though.

It’s a little annoying, but honestly fair, given that if he falls again, he’ll do himself serious damage, so he figures he can go this year without decorating. He has stuff up in his apartment. It’s fine.

Instead, he stops by the store on the way home and picks up a bunch of stuff for cookies, on the grounds that his very cute neighbor was taking care of him last night, and the least he can do is make her a bunch of cookies to thank her, and possibly flirt with her a little. Assuming he didn’t say anything last night to totally ruin her opinion of him that he’s now forgotten.

But when he gets back to the apartment, Clarke is up on a ladder, finishing up hanging the lights that she left in the foyer last night. He nearly calls out, but given she’s both up a ladder and he knows exactly how much it sucks to fall from that height, he stays quiet, watching until she gets to the ground.

And, okay, she does startle a little at the sight of him, but she doesn’t fall to her death or anything. So that’s good.

“Sorry, I didn’t want you to fall off the ladder.”

“Yeah, I hear it sucks. How are you feeling?”

“Achy. But the doctor said I’m good as long as I don’t experience any follow-up symptoms.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“You hung my lights for me.”

“Well, I was pretty sure the doctor was going to tell you not to do it.”

“She did, yeah. Thanks for taking care of it.”

She looks a little embarrassed, but it’s hard to tell, given it’s cold and her cheeks were already flushed. “Your stepdad sounded like an ass. I wanted to spite his memory.”

“Yeah, you should.” He holds up his bag. “I was going to make you cookies to say thanks for taking care of me last night. You want to come help? You can make sure I don’t fuck up the directions because of the head trauma.”

Her smile is just as bright and perfect when his whole body is one giant ache, so that’s good to know. “I really suck at baking.”

“I’m awesome at it. You just need to read. I’ll even throw in some hot chocolate.”

“Well, when you put it like that.” She grins. “You’ve got a deal.”

*

Next year, Clarke insists on doing the lights together.

“It’s clearly really dangerous,” she says. “If you’re going to die, I want you to die doing something cool, not falling off the roof hanging Christmas life.”

“Sorry my potential death isn’t badass enough for you,” he teases, and she leans up for a kiss.

“Or maybe I just want to check out your ass when you’re up the ladder.”

“I like that one better,” he says. “And you can catch me if I slip.”

“That sounds likely,” she says, but she twines their fingers together and tugs him up. “Come on, I want to see what you do. I bet you have all these really awesome patterns that you figured out over years of spite-decorating.”

“I do,” he says. “Is that a thing for you?”

“Not as much as bad decision-making and concussions, but it’ll do as a back-up.”

“Maybe next year,” he says, and she smiles.

“Yeah. If I’m lucky.”


	31. In All the Land Timestamp: Wedding Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [l-lastchapter](http://l-lastchapter.tumblr.com/)! Original fic [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5759365).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fill contains explicit content!

Bellamy hadn’t _thought_ he was nervous about the wedding night, not really, but it turns out that’s because he was thinking about the _good_ part. Sex with Clarke– _everything_ with Clarke, actually–is the easiest thing about his new life. Once they’re alone, he’s comfortable, easy, and feels like he knows exactly what he’s doing. They’re so natural together that it would scare him, if he wasn’t so happy about it. He’s marrying the woman he loves, and it’s amazing.

But he’s also marrying the Queen of Arcadia, and before he gets his wedding night, he has to deal with the _party_.

“Did you have to invite so many princes?” he hisses.

“Diplomatically speaking? Yes. That’s how it works. We have to invite basically all the princes.”

“But they tried to win your hand and failed, right?” he asks. “So they’re–”

“All worse in bed than you are,” she assures him, leaning up to press her lips against his jaw, quick. “Do you want a detailed rundown of how each one failed? Would that help?”

He chokes on the air. “Probably not until after I meet them. Did they all try?”

“Prince Roan didn’t,” she says. “He was already engaged. But all the others did.”

“Fantastic. How is it not incredibly awkward for you?”

She shrugs. “It is, a little. But I knew I didn’t want to marry any of them, that’s part of why I set a challenge I didn’t think they could meet. And perhaps I did a little good. Teaching them something about how to actually satisfy a woman.”

“When you put it that way, I’m blown away by your altruism.” He lets out a long breath. “How long is this?”

“Dinner, and then a reception, with dancing.” She makes a face. “Far too long, and I’m sorry. Marrying me is a huge hassle. I did warn you.”

“You did. And I do still get to marry you.” He pulls her in for a longer kiss. “Ready?”

“Oh, I’m not worried about myself at all. It’s going to be much worse for you than for me. I already know these people.”

“You’re really making me feel better,” he grumbles.

She smirks. “I promise I’ll make it up to you after.”

It really does help a lot. “I knew I made the right decision, marrying you.”

“Yes,” she agrees. “I thought so too.”

*

He really should have realized _Prince Finn_ would be in attendance. He is, after all, a prince. One whom Clarke has known for a long time. It would have been unspeakably rude, to not invite him. And Bellamy at least knows Clarke dislikes him. Most of her failed suitors he’s not sure how she feels about them, except that she’s happy to have not married them. Bellamy knows plenty of people he likes but wouldn’t have wanted to marry. So it’s much better, knowing Clarke’s exact opinion of Prince Finn.

Which isn’t to say it is not unspeakably awkward.

“I’ve met you,” says Finn, squinting at him. “How could I have met you? You’re no one of consequence.”

“As of a few hours ago, I’m the prince consort of Arcadia,” he says, mild. It’s a conversation he’s had a lot tonight, although most of the others were a little more polite than Prince Finn. He’s a tailor, an untitled man who shouldn’t have warranted a second glance from someone like Clarke. Their condescension is familiar, and it’s a heady feeling, being able to remind them that _he’s_ the one who just married a queen.

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” Prince Finn stutters. “I didn’t mean–”

“Of course not,” says Bellamy. He considers, but–he’s only human. He can’t resist. “I owe you my gratitude.”

“You do?”

“You’re the one who told me about Clarke’s challenge. If not for you, I might never have tried for her. You have my sincere thanks.”

Watching all the blood drain out of Finn’s face as he realizes exactly where and when he met Bellamy is one of the most satisfying moments of his life, honestly. He wishes Clarke had been here to see it.

“You’re welcome,” Finn finally manages, and Bellamy bows.

He’s clearly doing fine with the diplomacy.

*

“If we hadn’t already slept together, this would have been incredibly cruel,” Bellamy says, falling back on their bed with a groan. “Hours and hours of polite conversation on our _wedding night_.”

“Many royals aren’t in much of a rush to make it to the bedroom,” Clarke points out. “Don’t tell me you’re too tired for it now.”

He sits up, alarmed. “I never said that.”

Clarke laughs. “We _have_ had plenty of sex already,” she teases. “If we miss out on this one night, it won’t be the end of the world.”

He drags himself off the bed, leans down to give her a long kiss. “And if I said the only thing that got me through the last hour of talking to Prince Roan and Princess Ontari was thinking about how I’d get you at the end of the night?”

“Mmm,” says Clarke, fingers flying up the buttons of his shirt, undoing them with practiced ease. “I hadn’t thought of that. Did you really talk to Roan and Ontari for an hour?”

“It was torture. He was laughing at me and I think she wanted to murder me.”

“That sounds right.” She worries her lip. “I had no idea it was so terrible for you.”

“ _Terrible_ might be a slight overstatement.”

Her hand trails down to the fastening on his trousers. “No, no. It was awful. You’re right, you deserve something nice to make up for everything you went through.”

She pulls his trousers down in the same motion that she drops to her knees, and he groans in anticipation. They haven’t done this before, and the sight of her kneeling before him is exactly as good as he thought it would be.

He still feels the need to tell her, “You don’t have to do this,” even as his hand is weaving into her hair.

She tugs his smallclothes down as well, fingers tracing the length of him. “Of course I don’t. But I’ve been thinking about it for days. Not that I don’t enjoy you fucking me,” she adds, looking up for a wicked grin. “But I think you’ve been thinking too much of me and not enough of yourself.”

“Obviously I get no enjoyment from–” He cuts himself off with a gasp when she slides her mouth down in one fluid motion. She doesn’t take all of him, but there’s much less hesitation than he’s used to, just sudden, wet heat. “Fuck,” he breathes, and she makes a contented noise and takes him a little deeper before pulling off, switching over to exploring with her tongue while her hand works him at the base of his dick. “Fuck, Clarke. Good thing you didn’t tell me you were going to do this, because I wouldn’t have been able to concentrate.”

She slides her mouth off him with an obscene noise, her hand still pumping. “I couldn’t think about anything else all night. Which is stupid, considering it’s nothing new, but–I was fantasizing about you tugging me into some corner and fucking me.”

He groans. “It’s _really_ good you didn’t tell me that. I’m going to be thinking about it at every party we ever go to now.”

She hums around his dick, sliding down so far he’s a little worried she’ll choke, but her moan is all pleasure, and he has to take a deep breath to keep from coming right then. Ordinarily, he prides himself on his stamina and control, but there’s something about having Clarke–not just this woman he already adores, but his _wife_ and an _actual queen_ –on her knees, working him with her mouth is–

It’s unbelievable. This can’t be his life.

“Do you want me to come like this?” he asks, letting himself thrust into her mouth, just a little, and going harder when she wraps her hand around his leg in encouragement. “Or do you want me to fuck you?” He wets his lips. “I bet you’re so wet right now, I could just slide right in. You’ve been thinking about this all night.”

She moans, and he sees her other hand drop between her legs, which is all the encouragement he needs. He tugs her off and up to his mouth for a rough kiss, and she laughs into it.

“I was enjoying that,” she teases.

“I’m hoping you’re going to enjoy this too,” he says, turning her around so she can brace her self against the wall. It takes a little effort to get past all her layers, but it’s not long before he’s sinking into her, hot and wet and so ready for him, and he buries his face against her neck as he thrusts into her.

He knows it won’t take him long, and his only real consolation is that it doesn’t seem like it will her long either. She really must have been thinking about this, all night, and the knowledge is going to haunt him at state functions for the rest of his life.

There are much worse things to be haunted by, though.

He fumbles his hand around to her clit as he starts to get close, manages to drive her over the edge before he loses it, and collapses onto her when he’s done, pressing kisses against all the skin he can see.

“One,” he says, and she laughs, pulls him up so he can kiss her lips this time.

“I think we can start measuring quality over quantity,” she says. “And it was a long night. Are you going to be disappointed if I want to go to bed?”

He pulls back enough that he can fumble with the buttons of her dress. “I think I’ll survive,” he says. “I’m not worried about the future of our sex life.”

She steps out of the gown once he’s gotten it undone and turns so she can wrap her arms around him and kiss him again. “What about the rest of your future? How are you feeling about that?”

He smiles, takes her hand and tugs her toward their bed. “Better and better.”


	32. A Girl With Uninterrupted Prosperity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [xblackjackstreetratx](http://xblackjackstreetratx.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: It would be really awesome in every which way if you could do a Bellarke fic in the universe of "Chuck" the tv show!

“Is this okay?”

Clarke glances up from her phone and feels her mouth go dry at the sight of Bellamy, awkward and uncomfortable in his tux.

Not that awkward and uncomfortable isn’t fairly standard for Bellamy, of course. In his element, he’s untouchable, confident and charming, easy, it’s just that he mostly doesn’t get a chance to be in his element. Which is a real shame, but not exactly shocking, given she’s not entirely sure what his element is.

“You didn’t tie your tie,” she says, because this is a job, and she’s a professional.

He rolls his eyes. “It’s a bow tie, Clarke. I’ve never worn a bow tie in my life. You’re going to need to help me out on this one. And I figured you’d have more feedback for me.”

“It’s a tailored suit. Of course it fits you. The CIA isn’t going to spring for a tux that doesn’t look good on you.”

“There we go,” he says, smirking. “I look good. Thanks. That’s what I was looking for.”

She rolls her eyes and puts her full attention on his tie. She used to do this for Wells all the time, and the motions are easy and second-nature, which isn’t really a plus. If this required any part of her brain, she wouldn’t be thinking about the smell of Bellamy’s cologne, the firmness of his chest under her hands, the way he’s just a few inches taller than she is, the perfect height to fold herself against his chest without having to strain her neck to kiss him.

It’s not the first time she’s had to fake a relationship for work. It’s annoyingly common, especially for female agents. The CIA’s official position is that same-sex couples draw more attention, which she knows from anecdotal personal evidence to be _true_ , but it still annoys her. So she gets called in a lot, to be someone’s fake trophy girlfriend.

It’s not _why_ she was sent to Bellamy. She was sent to figure out how he got the Intersect in his brain and how to get it out of there, and she’d assumed it would be fairly easy. He was clearly a threat to national security, and they needed to bring him in.

That would have been nice.

Instead, she got installed as his handler, and of _course_ their cover story was that she was dating him. She tried to talk them into letting Miller pose as his boyfriend and she’d pose as his coworker, but of course the CIA didn’t want to give the NSA that much influence. Even if they used the _same-sex couples are conspicuous_ excuse.

The first thing Bellamy did to endear himself to her was to say that he didn’t care either way, but unfortunately, it wasn’t the last. It was easy to resent him at first, this loser civilian stuck in a dead-end job who lucked into a position she’s been working for her whole life. But he’s nothing like she thought at all. He fought to give his sister a better life than he had, and he succeeded, dropping out of college when their mother died to raise and support her, never going back to school himself because he was paying for Octavia to do it instead.

Sometimes, she feels guilty just _looking_ at him, knowing how much money her family has that they’ll never need.

Most of the time, she just really, really likes him. He’s smart and kind, with a sarcastic, self-deprecating sense of humor and a charmingly grumpy wariness of social media and new technology, despite being an actual tech genius.

And, as it turns out, he can wear the hell out of a tuxedo.

“Okay,” she says, straightening his tie with a tight smile. “You’re set.”

“You mean I look the part,” he grumbles. “I still have to get through a black-tie event.”

“Yeah, I am worried about that. You haven’t even told me how _I_ look yet. That’s basic etiquette. Tell your date she looks pretty.”

He gives her an amused smirk. “Sorry, I thought you knew you always look amazing. You’re a professional.” But then his expression softens, and his eyes sweep over her, making her heart flutter embarrassingly. “But yeah. You look beautiful. Obviously.”

She shouldn’t have asked, because now she’s going to embarrass herself blushing over it. Stupid Bellamy. “Thanks. I think we should be able to pull it off.”

“That’s the plan,” he says, and offers his arm. “I promise I won’t get you killed.”

“Same to you,” she says. “Let’s do this.”

Clarke’s background–child of privilege, attending fancy parties since before she could talk–makes her as suited to these kinds of missions as Bellamy’s makes him unsuited. If anything, Clarke’s a little _too_ good at doing these parties; she can’t even use a fake name, for fear she’ll run into someone who really knows her.

On the other hand, she _hates_ fake identities. So it’s really just as well.

Bellamy’s as pale as she’s ever seen him, all the blood drained out of his face, and she takes his hand, impulsive. “You’re going to be fine. I know the Wallaces.”

“You act like that’s comforting,” he grumbles, but he squeezes her hand. “Strangers aren’t going to wonder why you’re slumming it with me. People you know will.”

She pauses, because–it’s sort of true, but not how he thinks. “Anyone who really knew me wouldn’t wonder why I was with you,” she finally settles on. “But you’re right, Dante and Cage are bigoted assholes, so they’re going to ask about your family and your income and probably more than one person will want to know where you’re _really_ from. Which is good.”

He snorts. “Great, rich racists.”

“Okay, yeah, not _good_. Advantageous. They’re not going to take you seriously.”

“I love being considered sub-human.” She squeezes his fingers again, and she feels him relax a little. “Honestly, as long as they ignore me, that’s fine. But if I’m the darkest person there, every security guard’s going to be on my ass.”

“Miller’s black,” Clarke says. “I’m pretty sure black trumps Asian.”

“Thanks for the breakdown, Captain Bigotry.” He does finally smile, relax a little. They’re using their usual backstory for the relationship–met on Tinder, hit it off–and she’s using her standard cover–working as a lobbyist–while he just tells the truth about his actual life and background. It’s a gambit, because Bellamy being poor and underemployed is more noteworthy than if he were someone from Clarke’s own social class. But she hasn’t been lying to her mother about him–aside from the obvious relationship lies–so if she lies to the Wallaces, it’s more likely to blow their cover than anything.

It’s complicated, when she does undercover work. If they’d known this was going to happen, they probably wouldn’t have sent her at all.

Her hand tightens on his, reflexive, thinking about someone else taking on this assignment.

“Why are you nervous?” he teases. “You do this all the time.”

“Not with you,” she says.

“Just pretend you like me for two hours and find the files. You’re a professional. You can do this.”

“Thanks for the pep talk,” she says, but it really isn’t hard. She introduces Bellamy around, and that part is as awkward and uncomfortable as they expected. But Bellamy really isn’t bad at this, and he doesn’t have trouble chatting, charming people with his easy smile and good looks, and Clarke has even less trouble slipping away to go to the bathroom and hacking into the computer system while she’s at it.

All in a day’s work.

She tucks herself back into Bellamy’s side, and he slides his arm around her, giving her a bright smile. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

“This is–” He flashes his smile at the girl, who looks about as dazzled as Clarke feels. “Maya, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Maya. She’s in med school.”

Clarke was pre-med, so that gets them through a good twenty minutes of small talk before Maya asks, “So, how did you two get together?”

“Tinder,” says Bellamy, which is usually sufficient, but Maya laughs.

“Come on, that’s not enough. I was on Tinder and I couldn’t meet anyone who was looking for more than a fun night. How did you know?”

“Look at her,” says Bellamy, and Clarke elbows him.

“Don’t be a shallow dick.”

He grins. “That’s actually why. Ten minutes into the first date we were bickering about Harry Potter houses and that was it for me. Sometimes you just know.”

Maya looks charmed, but she turns her attention to Clarke, and for some reason, Clarke–tells the truth. “It took me a little longer. Obviously he’s hot, but–he doesn’t make the best first impression. I wasn’t sure I really wanted to go on a second date, but–once he stops worrying about looking cool, he’s a really great guy.”

“Oh, that’s when it happens?” he teases.

Clarke rolls her eyes. “And that’s the other thing. I thought he was one of those false-modest guys, but he actually doesn’t get how amazing he is. Once I figured that out, I was gone. He’s just–I’ve never met anyone like him. I didn’t stand a chance.”

“That’s so sweet,” says Maya, but Bellamy is a little tense, and Clarke’s stomach churns. He’s teased her before about not being a great actress, and the sudden burst of genuine feeling was probably a lot.

“Sorry,” she says, ducking her own head. “Alcohol makes me sappy.”

“Just be sorry you’re making me rethink deleting Tinder,” Maya says, and that brings the conversation back, but Bellamy keeps on being–weird. It’s not that noticeable, she doubts anyone else would catch it, but she knows him pretty well by now. They’ve spent a lot of time pretending to date, and most of it didn’t feel that much like pretending to her. It honestly didn’t take long for hanging out with Bellamy to become her favorite part of the week, and she’s pretty sure Miller is more than a little dubious about the fakeness of their fake relationship.

Which is on her. She’s the professional here. She’s the one who shouldn’t be acting like a school girl with her first crush, not when she–

“Are we done yet?” Bellamy asks, leaning in close, lips brushing her ear, making her shiver. “If I get mistaken for a waiter again, we might start having problems. I know kung-fu now. I could do some damage.”

She has to smile. “We can be done, yeah.”

They say polite goodbyes to Dante and Cage and a few other people they’d chatted with, and Bellamy guides her out with one warm hand low on her back. He’s always close, but it’s more to deal with when she’s panicking about her ability to do her job.

“You got it?” Bellamy asks, once they’re in the car.

“I got it.”

“Do we need to drop it off tonight?”

She starts trying to untangle the intricate knots of her hairdo, to take a little of the pressure off her head, and to her surprise Bellamy shifts closer to do it himself. The feel of his steady hands against her scalp are even better than getting her hair down, and she has to remind herself not to melt.

“Why do you think we have a driver?” she asks. “He’ll take it.”

“Good.” There’s a pause, and then he says, “You’re about to pass out on me, aren’t you?”

“I really hate parties like that. I joined the CIA so I wouldn’t have to do that shit anymore.”

“You might want to consider a change in career.” Another pause while he gets her hair done and free, and then he asks, “Too tired for a movie?”

She turns to look at him, raises her eyebrows. “A movie?”

He shrugs. “It’s not that late. And secret-agent nights always put me in a mood for Bond.”

It feels like a peace offering, like he wants to reassure one or both of them that they’re normal. Everything’s cool.

“Which Bond?” she asks, and he grins. “If it’s Roger Moore–”

“Connery, Clarke. Give me some credit.”

“As long as it’s Connery.”

They’re halfway through _Dr. No_ when Bellamy shifts closer and says, “I really like girls who look like they can kick my ass.”

“Yeah, we all like the femme fatales more than the actual Bond girls,” says Clarke, rolling her eyes. “You’re not special, Blake.”

“I didn’t mean the movie. I meant you.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Definitely lust at first sight. But–it really didn’t take long to figure out how amazing you are.”

“Oh,” she breathes.

“Sorry if I made that awkward, I just–” He huffs. “Fuck, if there’s even a _chance_ we could–”

It’s going to be complicated and kind of messy and definitely will involve rethinking her security clearance, but she can’t bring herself to care. It’s been a long time since she felt this way, and there’s no way she’s going to risk missing out.

The first kiss is off-center, a little awkward, uncoordinated. Bellamy laughs, soft, slides his hand up to cup her cheek, and the second kiss is better, and so is the third, and the fourth, and the fifth, until she loses track.

“You think I got access to any top-secret sex positions with the Intersect?” he asks, moving his mouth down her neck.

She laughs. “No idea. Can’t wait to find out.”


	33. Minty - When a Plan Comes Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [manycoloureddays](http://manycoloureddays.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: Monty x Miller Leverage AU

The biggest question in Nathan Miller’s life used to be how he’d find his next job. It’s half of why he joined up with Bellamy’s weird, do-gooder redemption club in the first place, because he’s just kind of fundamentally lazy, and he likes having someone else figure out what he’s going to do. And, okay, he’s kind of into doing good. Especially when it still makes him money.

Overall, it’s a good life, and for a while his most pressing concerns tended to be coming up with a good excuse to spend the vast majority of his free time with Monty and making sure that everyone maintained a semi-healthy lifestyle, given Monty, Clarke, and Murphy can barely cook for themselves and Bellamy just forgets to eat most nights because he’s too busy being Bellamy.

It’s a great first year, and then Clarke needs a break.

Nate doesn’t blame her, not really. Not for having to go. She had a rougher year of it than most of them did, and sometimes you just need a break. He gets it.

Bellamy gets it too, but Bellamy has to live with it in a way that Nate doesn’t, and it’s really, really bad for him.

“You know, the last time my parents got a divorce, my mom got custody,” Murphy observes. He’s poking himself in the arm with a fork, for no reason Miller can fathom. He doesn’t fucking get Murphy, seriously. “It’s weird to be living with Dad.”

“I’m not your dad,” says Bellamy. “And Clarke and I aren’t married, so we didn’t get a divorce. She’s coming back. And–” He rubs his face. “Shut up, Murphy.”

“Seriously, this is exactly like when my parents got divorced.”

“At what point did your mom abandon you by the side of the road?” Nate asks, mostly to shift the conversation away from Bellamy.

“It was at a MacDonald’s,” says Monty. “When he was nine.”

“It’s still weird when you read my permanent record, Green,” says Murphy. “Just look for that porno I did if you want to creep on me.”

“Already saw it, never again,” says Monty. He shoots Nate a smile, and Nate returns it, grateful.

And that’s his new life for a few weeks, him and Monty running interference, making sure Murphy doesn’t tweak Bellamy too much while Clarke is away, and also making sure that Bellamy doesn’t get too into his own head. It’s not as good as it was with Clarke around, but it’s still not bad. It’s still better than basically anything he was doing before Bellamy recruited him.

And then, Bellamy finds them a new job, and the biggest issue in Nate’s life becomes if he’s going to murder Bellamy or Clarke first.

“No. No way.”

Bellamy crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m missing the part where this is your call.”

“I am too,” Monty says.

“You’re not a fucking dictator, Bellamy. You don’t get to deliver edicts from on high.”

“He kind of does,” says Murphy. “Like, he picks the jobs and tells us what to do. That’s his whole job.”

“And if Clarke’s not here, someone else has to do the grift,” Monty adds.

“So I will,” says Nate. “I can do it. And I can take care of myself if it goes wrong.”

“I can do it!” he says, shorter than Nate thinks he’s ever heard him. “And you’re not the only one who can take care of themselves. I’m just as capable as you are.”

He winces. “That’s not what I meant. But you’re–”

“We’ve all done grifts before.”

“Not like this.”

“So you think Clarke can do it and I can’t.”

“ _No_.” He glares at Bellamy. “This is all your fucking fault.”

“What, for recognizing Monty is the best guy for the job? Yeah, I’m such a fucking asshole. If you’ve got an actual argument, you can make it, Miller. If you’re just worried Monty can’t handle himself, sit down and shut up. He’s willing, able, and the logical choice.”

“And I want to,” Monty adds, looking defiant.

He’s going to kill Clarke, seriously. Or just find her and drag her back here so that everything doesn’t feel unbalanced anymore. Probably that one. He’s not really sure what would happen to Bellamy if Clarke died, and he doesn’t want to know.

Plus, he still likes her. He’d be pretty upset if she never came back.

“Fine,” says Miller. “No objections.”

“Cool,” says Bellamy. “Let’s go steal a research lab.”

*

If Nate thinks about it logically–which is almost impossible, given his biases–he understands that Monty is the best one for the job, in this case. Clarke’s good at faking competence at anything, but the rest of them have areas of expertise, and don’t tend to do long grifts, ever.

But Clarke’s not here, and the cause is just, so Monty’s doing this, and Nate is beating the shit out of a punching bag until he feels better about it.

It’s not a good way to deal with feelings, but it’s about all he’s got.

Monty comes down after about a half an hour and sits down in his usual place on the floor with his laptop. At first, when this happened, Nate expected conversation, but he’s learned that’s not really Monty’s style. He just sits on the floor and waits, and at some point Nate will get bored and go over there.

It’s how it always happens; Nate is bad at staying away from Monty.

This time, it takes about ten minutes.

“I’m bringing Raven in,” he says, when Nate flops down on the floor next to him.

“I thought she said working with us took years off her life,” says Nate. He’s only met Raven once, and she’s awesome, if more than a little terrifying. Which is true of most people he knows, come to think of it.

“Yeah, but in a fun way. Besides, she’s flirting with the bartender downstairs, so she’s always looking for an excuse to hang around. She’s going to be my lifeline if I don’t understand the hardware. I’m more of a software guy.”

“Is this your way of telling me you’re going to be careful?”

“No, because you know I will be and I don’t need to tell you that. But I am taking it seriously.”

They sit in silence, and Nate knows it’s his line. “I know you are. It’s not–fuck, I just don’t want anything to happen to you, okay? These guys are bad news, and you’re going in to con them.”

“We con bad guys all the time. It’s our job.”

“This is Clarke’s job.”

“Yeah? Why don’t you find her and tell her to do it?

Nate sighs, flops onto his back. “You could find her, couldn’t you?” he asks the ceiling. Monty can find anyone.

He’s quiet for long enough that it’s not a surprise when he says, “I know where she is.”

It makes Nate smile. “Bellamy know that?”

“I haven’t told him. But–I think he knows, yeah.”

“Do you think she’s going to come back?”

“Yeah, I do.”

Nate nods. She never said she was leaving _forever_. Just for a while. “I just–take care of yourself, okay? And if it goes bad, I’m going to come and get you. And it’s not because I don’t think you can take care of yourself.”

“You think I can take care of myself, but you still want to take care of me.”

He considers. “Yeah. That’s exactly it.”

*

“So hormones are going to destroy your team, right?” asks Raven. It’s nice to have a distraction from pacing a hole in the carpet, even if the distraction is Raven teasing him. “I knew Bellamy and Clarke we’re going to derail, but you and Monty are a surprise. At least Murphy is ace.”

“I thank god every day,” Murphy says. “Not that I believe in god either. But you know what I mean.”

“If you’re ace, why were you doing porn?” Nate asks.

“I don’t judge your shitty life choices.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Yeah, okay. I was bored, they paid me. I figured I might as well give it a shot.” He grins. “A money shot, if you will.”

“I won’t,” says Nate. “And I hate you.”

“You don’t have to worry about Monty,” Raven goes on, somehow not distracted by Murphy’s terrifying past. “I know he doesn’t look like it, but he’s a badass. And he can pass for a geeky tech guy in his sleep.”

“He is a geeky tech guy,” says Nate. “And I’m not worried.”

“Uh huh. Keep telling yourself.”

*

The worst part is that, in the end, nothing bad happens to Monty, but Nate fucks up and gets caught trying to break into the secure vault. Which is humiliating, because he should have been able to get into that vault in his sleep, but he hasn’t been getting much sleep, worrying about Monty.

Clarke really needs to get back already.

Murphy comes and saves him, because that’s Murphy’s job, and he’s somehow good at it, and Nate gets back home only for Monty to come and yell at him.

He can’t pretend he doesn’t deserve it.

“What the fuck was that?”

“I’m going to let him take this one,” says Bellamy. “But, for the record, what the fuck was that. Come on, Murphy. Let’s go watch Raven hit on Gina.”

Once they’re alone, Nate says, “I fucked up.”

“And?”

“And it was fine.”

“That’s it? You spend all week telling me to be careful and now you–”

“I worry a lot more about you than I worry about myself,” he says.

Monty’s jaw works. “That’s not a good excuse.”

“It’s not an excuse. It’s just true.” He rubs his face. “I’m in love with you.”

Against all odds, it seems to be a surprise. “What?”

“Kind of fucks with my rational thinking.” He nods once. “Anyway, yeah. You did good. I fucked up. I still don’t–I don’t like you doing this stuff, but you’re good at it. And it’s been a really stupid long day, so–”

Monty catches his wrist. “You can’t just _leave_ after that.”

Nate licks his lips. “What should I be doing instead?”

Monty doesn’t give him a verbal answer, but he yanks him down for a kiss, and Nate gets _make out with me until we fall asleep_ from context clues.

He doesn’t feel any need to argue with that. Crisis averted, issue resolved.

He’s set.


	34. Gymilocks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [storieswhispered](http://storieswhispered.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: Bellarke, Clarke signs up for gym with Raven- cue personal trainer's Bellamy and Lexa and possibly Lincoln and Octavia teaching classes

The thing about working out is that Clarke is bad at it.

She understands the benefits, but her overall attitude toward the entire practice is basically the same as Ann Perkins’: she knows that physical activity keeps her healthy, but at what cost?

That being said, it really is important, so when Raven decides to sign up for a gym, Clarke figures she might as well sign up with her. Or, more accurately, Raven tells her they’re signing up together, and Clarke doesn’t argue the point, because she it’s her best chance at actually going to a gym regularly. With Raven, she’ll have both a buddy and someone to peer pressure her into going. Which makes it much more likely that going to the gym will actually _happen_.

Plus, Raven’s deal gets her a personal trainer, and that’s someone else she’ll feel guilty about letting down if she flakes out.

It’s maybe bad, how effective the fear of other people’s disappointment is as a motivator, but if it gets her to the gym, that’s a win, right?

The problem is that finding a personal trainer is _hard_.

“No, it’s really not,” says Raven. “I just took the one they assigned me and went with it.”

“Well, you got a good one,” Clarke says, which is true. Raven’s trainer is a kind of surly guy named Nathan Miller, who shares a love of video games and sarcastic sense of humor with Raven. In fact, if Raven didn’t get along so well with Miller, Clarke might be more willing to just go with her own trainer, because she wouldn’t know any better. Her standards would be low.

In many ways, Octavia is just what Clarke expected: a fit, energetic woman who seems to be a personal trainer because she loves working out so much that she couldn’t help making a career of it. It’s a passion Clarke both respects and admires, but it really doesn’t work for her, for her personal trainer. It’s like getting tutored by a kid who never has to study; Octavia can’t comprehend someone who doesn’t love working out.

So Clarke requests, in the nicest way possible, a different personal trainer. It feels kind of unfortunately like breaking up with someone–right down to the cliched _it’s not you, it’s me_ –but of course Octavia doesn’t care. She just shrugs it off and says, “Yeah, that’s cool. It can take a while to find the right person. Let’s see how you do with Roan.”

Roan initially seems like he should be better. He’s much more along the Miller lines of personal trainer, dry and sarcastic, but he has this cavalier, I-don’t-give-a-shit attitude that Clarke can’t really work with. If her personal trainer doesn’t seem invested, then she doesn’t really feel as if her failure will disappoint them, and that’s an important part of her potential exercise regime. Roan’s attitude is, essentially, _I’m getting paid no matter what, you’re the one wasting your money_.

Clarke’s sure it works on some people, but she has plenty of money. She can afford to waste some, finding the right person.

“You know, if you don’t want to work out, you could just leave the gym,” Raven says. “It’s just weird to make them kick you out because you’ve vetoed every personal trainer they throw at you.”

“I don’t want to leave,” Clarke protests. “And that’s not what’s happening. But if the personal trainer doesn’t make me want to work out, I shouldn’t stay with them, right? I’m just getting what I need.”

Raven pats her shoulder. “Sure you are, Goldilocks. Good luck with that.”

Clarke would like to object to the nickname, but it’s honestly depressingly apt. Her next trainer, Maya, is too nice, and the one after that, Anya, is too mean. Lincoln is too ripped, Jasper too scrawny. Charles Pike reminds her of her high-school gym teacher, and her mother used to date Marcus Kane, so she vetoes him before their session even starts.

So, okay. She’s maybe a little picky about her personal trainers. It’s not on _purpose_. It just kind of happened.

When her new trainer greets her with, “So, you’re Clarke,” in tones that suggest she is someone who has been discussed extensively by the entire staff, she can’t even feel offended. She completely deserves it.

“Nice to meet you,” she says, going for friendly and probably coming off as overly peppy and eager. She can’t help a wince.

The trainer looks her up and down and then nods once. “Lexa. We’ll start on the treadmill.”

Lexa is almost perfect, taking the parts of Clarke’s previous trainers that didn’t quite work for her and rearranging them into something effective. She doesn’t come across as any more personally invested in Clarke’s progress than Roan and Anya did, but there’s a quality to her indifference that sparks Clarke’s stubbornness, makes her want to impress her. She doesn’t exactly have a dry sense of humor–it’s more a dry sense of non-humor–but Clarke finds her weirdly amusing. And she’s cute, as a bonus.

All things considered, Lexa really should be the personal trainer for her, which is why it takes Clarke so long to feel okay jettisoning her.

“Seriously, what’s the issue?” Raven asks. “What’s not working?”

“It’s just not _right_.”

“What more do you think you’re going to get out of your personal training regime? You’ve got good eye candy who makes you want to work out. That’s the goal. Why would you get rid of her?”

“Because she’s still not what I’m looking for.”

“You’re not on _The Bachelor_. You are expecting way too much out of this. And you’re going to run out of personal trainers. What happens then?”

“If I run out of personal trainers, I’ll go back to Lexa. She’s–it’s so close.”

“There’s seriously something wrong with you,” says Raven, and Clarke doesn’t argue with that.

The next day, she asks Lexa, “If I don’t want to work with you, am I out of personal trainers? Do they kick me out?”

She pauses. “Do you not want to work with me?”

“Sorry. It’s just–it’s not quite working for me. I don’t know why.”

Lexa considers her, and the intense, unwavering scrutiny is the best argument Clarke has for sticking with her as a trainer. But–the grass is always greener, or something. “If you’d like to work with someone else, I think I have someone for you.”

“Was that supposed to be kind of ominous?” It’s really hard to tell with Lexa, who is so inherently dramatic that she doesn’t even seem to realize it.

She shrugs. “Just true. I’ll see if he’s available. You can warm up while you’re waiting.”

Clarke’s not sure when exactly the guy comes in, but she doesn’t spot him until she’s finished with her warmup and starting to get worried that no one’s coming.

She’s seen him around before, although she hadn’t been sure if he was an employee or a patron. He’s the kind of guy who’s hard not to notice, all firm muscle and smooth skin, with tangled black hair and a generous smattering of freckles. He’s leaning against the door, arms crossed over his chest, emphasizing both his impressive biceps and tight shirt.

It’s a lot to take in.

“Hi,” says Clarke.

“Do you want a note?” asks the guy.

“A note?”

“ _Please excuse Clarke Griffin from exercising_ ,” he says. “ _She is unable to find a personal trainer who meets her needs_. I assume someone is auditing you or something. Or it’s an insurance issue. Healthcare sucks, I get it, but you’re probably losing more money coming here than you would paying for your hospital bills.”

“That would really depend on why I was going to the hospital,” Clarke says, automatic. Her mother’s a doctor; she knows exactly how fucked healthcare is. “And it’s not what’s happening.”

“Okay, so explain it to me.”

“I hate working out.”

“Wow, that’s a new one.”

Clarke glares at him. “Did you want to hear or not?”

“Honestly, not really. Why do you think I assigned myself to you last?”

“I can think of a lot of reasons.”

He snorts at that, this little huff of laughter that Clarke feels unduly smug about eliciting. “Yeah, you’re right. A lot of factors at work. So, you hate working out. You don’t actually have to pay to do something you hate.”

“No, but I should. I want to work out. And I need–a really specific kind of motivation.”

“Uh huh.” He pauses, and then says, “You know you got our best trainer right off the bat, right?”

Clarke strains to remember her first trainer. “Oh, Octavia?”

“Yeah. What was wrong with Octavia?”

“She was too good at–everything. And she seems to really love exercise. I felt like we were speaking different languages.”

He gives this more consideration than she thinks it really warrants, but finally he nods and actually comes in to the room, instead of leaning on the door. “Yeah, okay. I get that. She’s really independently motivated.”

“You aren’t going to ask me about anyone else?”

The guy stretches a little, cracks his neck. “Octavia’s my little sister,” he tells her. “She said there were no hard feelings, but–”

“I didn’t recognize your little sister was the best trainer ever, so my judgement is impaired?” she asks. It’s honestly more than a little cute. “She’s an amazing trainer. Just–not the right one for me.”

“Good save,” he says. “But I’m not convinced there is a right trainer for you.”

“Neither am I.”

“Might as well give it a shot, though.” He offers his hand. “Bellamy Blake.”

“Clarke Griffin.”

He huffs out the same little laugh. “Trust me, I know.”

Bellamy is absolutely and completely the best. He’s four years older than Clarke, and he’s the manager of the gym, a job for which he seems completely unsuited. He’s grumpy and irritable, apparently to cover up the fact that he is a giant softie, which he manages with varying degrees of success, depending on what he’s talking about. He finds exercise about as inherently appealing as she does, and the only way he ever got fond of it in the first place was by only letting himself listen to books on tape when he was working out.

In short: he’s great, Clarke’s going to the gym just to hang out with him, and he probably shouldn’t be her personal trainer.

“Holy shit, what’s wrong with him?” Raven asks. “You think he’s great. You can’t shut up about him.”

“Yeah,” Clarke admits.

“And?”

“And I really, really want to make out with him.”

Raven does not look impressed. “So?”

“It’s a conflict of interest, right?”

“Just for him, and just if he wants to make out with you. Also, he’s a personal trainer, not an FBI agent. He doesn’t have a conflict of interest. What’s supposed to happen if you guys date and he’s your personal trainer?”

“It just feels like a bad idea.”

There’s a long pause. “Okay,” Raven finally says. “You’re right. You should definitely tell him he shouldn’t be your trainer because you want to make out with him. Let me know how that goes.”

Of course, when she puts it like _that_ , Clarke has no idea what she’s supposed to say. It was hard enough telling her other trainers that she didn’t want to work with them, and that’s not really the issue with Bellamy. Working with him is amazing. She’s been spending _more_ time at the gym, just because she likes seeing him. Her life is in all ways better, with Bellamy as her personal trainer.

But it feels like settling. She knows he’s single, and bisexual like she is, and–he does seem to like her, for all she’s kind of ridiculous. He might be interested, if she asked right.

So, of course, she doesn’t.

“Could I go back to Lexa as a personal trainer?” is what she goes with, and the tension races up his back, instant and obvious.

“Yeah,” he says, not turning to look at her. “Sure. If you think it’s going to work the second time, knock yourself out. But if you don’t like her, you’re out of options. Sorry none of us met your needs.”

“Bellamy,” she starts.

He makes for the door, still not looking at her. “She’s with another client right now, but I can check her schedule for you, see when–”

She catches his wrist. “Bellamy. That was–that was supposed to be the start of a conversation.”

“It doesn’t need to be. I’m not the personal trainer for you. I get it. It’s not a big deal.”

“You’re the perfect personal trainer for me. Do you want to get dinner?”

Finally, he turns to her, wary. “What?”

“Dinner. Like–a date. I shouldn’t date my personal trainer, right? It’s–you’re not supposed to do that. There are probably rules.”

His expression is slowly brightening, this fond, amused exasperation that she can’t help returning.

“There really aren’t,” he says. “No rules about that at all. If you want to date your trainer, knock yourself out. That’s how O and Lincoln met.” He wets his lips, smiles a little. “I can date you and train you, if that’s, uh–if you want.”

“I already asked you out. Ball’s kind of in your court.”

There’s a final, agonizing second, and then he laughs, tugs her in with a hand at her waist and kisses her, warm and firm and exactly what she was hoping for.

“Honestly,” he says, resting his forehead against hers when he pulls away. “I don’t care that much about the trainer thing. I’ll switch you to someone else if you want. I just didn’t want to stop seeing you.”

Clarke laughs and tugs him closer. “Yeah, you don’t have to worry about that,” she says. “I know it’s hard to tell, but I really like this gym. I’m not going anywhere.”


	35. You Make Me Feel Like I Am Home Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [jazzyjones](http://jazzyjones.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: fwb bellarke because that never gets old but maybe they're in a band together? trying to keep things casual but bellamy keeps writing songs about clarke

It starts when Lexa goes solo.

Clarke’s the only one who tries to argue it’s anything other than a horrific, unilateral betrayal. And she’s really only arguing with the unilateral part; she doesn’t _support_ Lexa’s decision, but she understands why Lexa did what she did. It was shitty, but it was the right decision for her.

“I make all sorts of decisions that are bad for me and good for the band, though,” says Monty.

“Like what?” Bellamy asks. He sounds more curious than doubtful.

“I run the twitter account because if anyone else did it, you’d spend all your time fighting people on the internet.”

“That’s definitely true,” Clarke says. “Seriously, all I’m saying is that I can see why she did it. I wouldn’t, and I don’t think any of the rest of us would either, but–it was her call.”

“Yeah,” says Miller. “And her call left us down a lead singer and songwriter, so I’m going to go on hating her. If that’s cool with you.”

Clarke smiles. “Knock yourself out. We can get a new singer. And we have a songwriter.”

“Since when?” asks Raven.

“Bellamy writes. He’s just as good as Lexa was. So all we really need is a new lead singer.”

She didn’t think it was a particularly noteworthy statement, but everyone else is staring at her like she grew a second head. And then looking at Bellamy like he did too.

“Since when?” Monty finally asks.

“They’re shitty,” Bellamy says.

“They’re really not. They’re different,” she admits, when he gives her a look. “They wouldn’t have worked for Lexa. But we’re getting a new singer, right? We might as well get a whole new sound, while we’re at it.”

There’s a pause, and then Raven says, “You got any songs on you, Bellamy?”

“Nothing polished.” He rubs the back of his neck. “But sure. We might as well try one out.”

*

It doesn’t take long at all for things to get back to something like normal. They pick up a new lead signer, Luna, who’s a perfect match for Bellamy’s style, and they change their name from Meteorite to Tidal Drift. The new sound loses them a few fans and gains them some new ones, but according to Monty, it’s basically a wash, so the record label isn’t upset. Lexa might be blowing up as a solo act, but they remain solid, good performers, and they bring in crowds.

It’s not the same, but it’s close enough, and that’s maybe why Clarke thinks Bellamy’s going to start sleeping with Luna.

It feels like the right kind of poetic symmetry: she nearly screwed up their friendship hooking up with their last lead singer, so now it’s his turn. But that doesn’t happen. Luna ends up dating Raven, and she and Bellamy fall back into their same old pattern: best friends, partners, unofficial leaders of the band, and, yeah–occasionally, they hook up. The relief of it, the first time it happens post-Lexa, is so great it’s almost _painful_ , the two of them up late and alone, watching TV on Bellamy’s couch, moving closer and closer until she finally gets up the nerve to kiss him, and he kisses back.

It’s casual between them, it always has been. He told her the first time it happened that he didn’t expect anything, and she quashed that first bright spark of heartache before it could catch. Casual was fine. Casual worked for them.

Lexa’s desire for an actual relationship derailed that for a bit, and Clarke’s just glad no one blamed their relationship for Lexa going solo. They’re just glad that she didn’t go too, like Lexa wanted her to.

“No expectations, right?” Clarke asks, sliding into his lap, fitting against him just as perfectly as always.

His hands slide up her sides. “No expectations.”

*

Clarke and Bellamy started the band in college, because they were having an argument about Coldplay. She still doesn’t quite understand how they managed to go from basically _agreeing_ that the band had a lot of good songs, especially on the early albums, to a screaming fight, and then to starting a band together, but it felt natural at the time, and looking back, she can’t regret any of it.

Which, when she thinks about it, is her whole relationship with Bellamy in a nutshell, honestly.

*

The reporter is hot, dark eyes and a terrifyingly white smile, and doing his best to undress Bellamy with his eyes while Bellamy does his best to pretend he hasn’t noticed. And that the rest of them aren’t holding back their giggles at his expense.

“You’ve taken over songwriting as well, haven’t you?” the reporter asks.

Bellamy shifts, a little uncomfortable. He prefers to jump in on questions for other people, rather than being the center of attention. “Yeah. I wasn’t sure about it, but–” His eyes flick to Clarke. “It’s just like anything else. If you can do it in-house, it’s cheaper and easier than hiring an outsider.”

“You draw a lot from your childhood. Is it hard, putting so much of yourself into your music?”

That relaxes him, if only with its absurdity. “All musicians put themselves into their music. Writing lyrics–it’s different, but it’s not a more genuine reflection of my inner self or some bullshit.” He grins. “It’s as true and as false as everything else about my public persona.”

The reporter laughs. “Fair enough. Meteorite was famous for Lexa’s mantra of _no love songs_. Your first single was a love song. Was that a deliberate distancing of Tidal Drift from Meteorite?”

“Lexa says she didn’t write love songs,” Clarke interjects. “But I never bought it. I think when you get down to it, most songs are love songs. People just have a very limited definition of love.”

“A romance song then,” the reporter persists. “You’ve been single since you broke up with Gina Martin last year,” he adds, to Bellamy.

“Sure,” Bellamy agrees. Fans are going to read into that single word; Clarke’s not going to let herself do the same.

“Should we take this to mean there’s someone new in your life?”

“No.” He flashes another smile. “Trust me, you don’t need to be in love to write a love song. It’s ingrained.” He glances at Clarke. “Sorry, a romance song.”

“I didn’t agree to that terminology.”

“Should have come up with your own first.”

“I snooze, I lose?” she suggests, and he shrugs.

“So no love interests on the horizon,” the reporter persists.

“Wow, we’re so lucky Bellamy is single so we have something to talk about in interviews,” Miller says, dry, and Bellamy ducks his head, Clarke’s pretty sure to hide his gratefulness, not his amusement.

“Sorry you’re less of a heartthrob, Miller,” says Clarke, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Yeah, it keeps me up at night.”

The conversation shifts to the transition from Lexa to Luna, and Clarke watches Bellamy relax by degrees as the focus leaves him.

But he never quite gets there.

*

If she’s honest, Clarke thinks love songs are bullshit too. Not like Lexa did, not in a _feelings are weakness_ way. She just assumes that most songs are, like Bellamy said, as false as they are true. For every sentiment the artist has felt, there’s another that’s in there because it scans well or because the metaphor just sounded cool. You really don’t need to be in love to write a love song, because that’s the first thing you learn, when you listen to music.

Still, she thinks you might need to be at least a little in love to write a _good_ love song, and Bellamy’s are great.

It was hard to notice at first, because she thinks _all_ his songs are great. He’s the most talented person she knows.

After the interview, though, she starts thinking about the long songs. They felt like just a sign of rebellion, a small, petty way to distance themselves from Lexa, but they can’t _just_ be that.

He hits all the expected notes, unrequited love, anxiety about telling someone how you feel, and plenty more unexpected ones, vivid images of being with someone and not knowing how to reach out, of warm nights on a roof under the moon with humidity heavy in the air. If there’s one unifying theme of Bellamy’s music, it’s longing, an ache so deep it feels inescapable.

If Bellamy’s songs are trying to create a persona, then the portrait they paint is of someone who doesn’t believe it’s possible that he’ll ever get what he wants.

“I can’t believe it took us this long to use your stuff,” Clarke says. His hand is trailing up and down her bare back with no apparent ulterior motive while she scans the looses pieces of paper he had lying by his bed, just snatches of lyrics and melody. “You’re so good.”

“Yeah, well, you never suggested it, and no one else knew.”

“Are you pissed I did?”

“I wouldn’t have told you if I didn’t want you to know.”

“I meant that I told them.”

He yawns. “Oh, nah. I get more attention. It’s awesome.”

She snorts, puts the pages down to curl against his bare chest. “Keep pretending that’s it.”

“Thanks. I will.”

Two months later, she recognizes the moment in a song.

*

It’s not the exact moment, of course. He’s not that unsubtle. But it was such a perfect night, the two of them warm and close, curled together and not even bothering to have sex, just staying close, talking about what he was working on, figuring out the right chord progression. She’d pretended to fall asleep before she actually did, just to have an excuse to rest against his side with his arm around her.

It’s not like she didn’t know she was in love with him. She just didn’t know he felt the same.

The song is about that kind of happiness, the kind where you don’t have exactly what you want, but what you have is good enough that it’s hard to feel anything but content in the moment, even knowing it might break any second. And that’s always been them too, always having just enough, but never _everything_.

She misses her cue joining in on their first play through, and everyone teases her, and she smiles and tells them it’s nothing.

But really, she’s thinking about all his other songs, and about how he told that reporter there was no one _new_.

She’s thinking about the things you say to protect yourself, the words you wear like armor. Words like _just this once_ and _no expectations_.

She has no idea how she makes it through rehearsal.

“Come on,” she says. They’re sharing one big house while they record the new album, and it’s not uncommon for him to come to her room. It’s a little weird for her to drag him, but no one else pays them much mind.

“You know I’ll just go with you, right?” he asks, inspecting his arm for bruises. “ I like you.”

“How long have you been writing songs about me?”

His jaw works, and then he nods, once, making up his mind. “How long have I known you?”

“God, you fucking drama queen,” she says, and yanks him down.

Kissing to convey your feelings doesn’t work quite as well when kissing is a normal part of your routine, but Clarke thinks he gets it from the way tenses and then relaxes, melts into it. She can taste his smile.

“When the girl you like kisses you, don’t tell her you’re looking for casual because you’re afraid you’ll get hurt.”

“Don’t get drunk before you kiss the guy you like, he’ll freak out and think you don’t mean it,” he counters, but he’s grinning, and leaning down to kiss her again. It’s softer than it used to be, warmer. “What did it?”

“ _My hand trailing up your back, the way your hair catches the dark_ ,” she says. “I remember that.”

“You remember _that_?” he asks, laughing. “That could be anything.”

“It was two months ago. Chicago. After that interview. I was looking at your drafts.”

“I can’t believe that’s what you recognized.”

“Are all of them about me?”

He kisses her again. “Yeah, of course. They’ve always been about you.”

*

“The new songs are a little more upbeat,” says the reporter. She’s cute and not flirting with anyone, which is Clarke’s favorite kind of reporter. “A little more optimistic. As usual, the fans want to know if there’s a new girl in your life, Bellamy.”

“The fans should get less heteronormative,” he says. “But no, still no one new.” He smiles with half his mouth, and Clarke looks down so she won’t do the same. “But they’re not wrong. Life’s pretty good right now.”

“Anything to add?” the reporter asks, and Clarke shrugs.

“Nope. I think that about covers it.”


	36. Everaftering So Happy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [isabilightwood](http://isabilightwood.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: Bellarke + the librarians tv show AU

There is, honestly, no justice in the world.

First, Bellamy has to have _partners_. Or, well, maybe he _gets_ to have partners. Because after a few months of not being the only Librarian, he has to admit that there are perks to having some help. Not that he was ever alone, with Kane and the other library staff, but–he was the only field agent, and he was good with that.

But having partners works for him too, mostly. Monty’s good with computers, which Bellamy neither understands nor wants to understand, and Raven’s a mechanic, mathematical, and actually just overall genius. Miller is a thief and knows almost as much about literature as Bellamy knows about history.

And then there’s Clarke. Clarke is exactly the kind of person whom he feels _doesn’t_ deserve this job. She’s rich and privileged and doesn’t need something like this to make her feel like she belong in the world. She seemed like she had plenty of other things in her life, which was why he started calling her _Princess_ in the first place.

The more he learned about her, the more he regretted the nickname, so maybe he deserves this.

“Okay,” he says to himself, looking around. “I’m locked in a room, and I can’t get out. That’s–Rapunzel, probably. She’s the one in a tower.” He rubs his head. “My hair isn’t even long. Fuck.”

The modern interpretation of the tower is a tiny studio apartment, even smaller than his freshman dorm room and much, much less interesting. There’s a bed, a bookshelf with a few slim volumes, a closet full of gowns, and a tiny bathroom. The single window looks out over a park, and it’s too high for him to try to call for help.

Well, that’s not entirely true. He absolutely tried to call for help. It just didn’t work, so he gave up.

The walls are sheer concrete, with no footholds, and there’s a single door with the lock on the other side, which he had no luck breaking down.

It’s basically a prison cell with a four-poster bed, which is at least a huge improvement over an actual prison cell. And he has no one to blame but himself. He was the one who refused to let Clarke take the queen’s crown, because _he’s_ the Head Librarian, and it’s his responsibility.

And, honestly, it’s not like he would have done well with it, if Clarke just disappeared in front of his eyes, spirited away to some unknown place, just gone. He doesn’t like either position, but he might prefer being taken to being left behind. This way, he doesn’t have to be frantically searching for anyone. He just gets to wait around for his prince.

He hopes it’s Miller. Miller is totally the dashing prince type.

The problem with waiting around to be rescued is that it’s profoundly boring. He reads all the books in the room within about an hour, and then he reads them again, and then he starts ripping out and folding the blank pages into paper airplanes to throw out the window, in hopes that someone will see and come investigate.

He nearly tries climbing out of the window, except that he realizes just how pissed Clarke would be if he died falling off a building instead of waiting for a rescue. She’d use one of the Library’s artifacts to cross into the afterlife just to ream him out.

So he’s back to waiting, and boredom.

The bed is at least both large and comfortable, and he strips down to his boxers before he lies down. It feels like he’s practically melting into the mattress. It might actually be a feather bed. He’s never been in one before.

When he rolls onto his side, he hits something, and he roots around and finds an embroidery hoop. Someone’s started sewing a rose on there, and the needle is still stuck in the fabric, just waiting for him.

He’s bored. He’s so fucking bored. And he used to sew a lot when he was a kid, helping his mother out. And it _is_ something a princess would do. It’s stupid to not be suspicious, but his excuse is that he’s _desperate_. And it seems kind of in keeping with the theme.

The problem is, he was thinking of the wrong theme. He’s locked in a tower, but he’s not Rapunzel, because he pricks his finger on the needle, watches the blood pool on his fingertip, and his vision blurs, immediate.

He’s fucking _Sleeping Beauty_ , and his last thought, before he passes out, is that at least if he’s asleep, he won’t be bored out of his mind.

*

“This had better work.”

Bellamy’s brain feels like it’s made of lead. His whole _body_ feels like it’s made of lead. He’s cold, except for his lips, which have a single point of warm contact: someone’s mouth against his, soft and firm, not much of a kiss, but still _nice_.

“You just don’t want to try.” That sounds like Raven, and the first one was Miller.

He doesn’t open his eyes; he’s pretty sure he knows who it is. He can smell her, the sweet, floral scent of her shampoo, the slight tickle of her hair against his cheek.

The lips move away from his, and then Clarke says, “Okay, that didn’t work. Who’s next?”

It puts him in an interesting position. On the one hand, Clarke definitely kissed him, and that definitely woke him up from an enchanted sleep, which has a lot of implications. He knows exactly how this curse is supposed to be broken.

If he keeps on pretending to be asleep, then someone else will think they’re his true love, and then he won’t have to deal with it being Clarke.

Which is one of the shittiest things he can think of doing to someone, honestly. Not just to Clarke, but to Miller or Raven or whoever might try to–well, whatever happened, it would be weird.

“Are you sure you did it right?” asks Miller.

“I know how to kiss someone, Miller,” she snaps. “He’s unconscious, I’m not going to try to slip him some tongue.” Her tone falters a little. “I can’t break the curse. It’s not me. No big deal.”

“Clarke–” Monty starts, and Bellamy realizes, all at once, that the strange note he hears in Clarke’s voice is _regret_ , and that she wanted this to work too.

“Seriously, who’s up next?” she asks. “Unless you just want to carry him out and try to find an ex he still likes, or–”

“Jesus, I’m awake,” he grumbles. He forces his eyes open despite the slight pain, wincing at the harsh light. It wasn’t that bright in here, not that he remembered, but his eyes have been closed for a while.

When things come into focus, Clarke, Miller, Monty, and Raven are staring at him, mouths agape.

Clarke recovers first, rushing back over, fingers finding his pulse.

“Why are you checking my pulse? Why would I be dead?”

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I was asleep for a few days. How long was it?”

“Twenty-four hours,” she says. “Give or take. Don’t be a drama queen, Bellamy.” She offers him her hand and he lets her help him up. His body _does_ feel heavy, he doesn’t care what she says.

“I got whammied,” he says. “I get partial credit for that, right?”

“Sure. What happened to your clothes? Did you decide the best way to deal with this situation was to strip down and stab yourself with a needle?”

“Yeah, it seemed like an awesome plan.” He rubs his face. “I was bored, okay? I like sewing.”

“You never get to yell at anyone else for being reckless again. You were stuck in a princess story and you picked up a needle and stabbed yourself.”

“You’re really making it sound like the stabbing was way more deliberate than it was,” he grumbles, pulling on his jeans. Clarke throws him his shirt, and he gets that back on too. “It’s easy to accidentally prick yourself when you’re sewing, that’s why we have thimbles. If I was sewing as much as I did when I was a kid, it wouldn’t have even broken the skin. My calluses were awesome.”

“I don’t know why you think you’re making good arguments here, you–”

“If you guys are done trying to loudly ignore the implications of what just happened here,” Miller interjects, “we still have a book to find and a curse to end.”

They look at each other for roughly half a second, and then look away again. Loudly ignoring the implications of what happened there sounds _great_.

“It should be somewhere in this building,” says Clarke. “You good to walk?”

“I’m good,” he says. “Let’s move.”

He catches her wrist once the others are out of the room, fingers loose. She startles and looks up at him, eyes wide. “Bellamy, I–”

“Thanks for the rescue,” he says, and she gives him a tight smile.

“Yeah. No problem.”

*

Two days later, the crisis is resolved, and they still haven’t talked about it. It is, in theory, everyone’s day off, but Bellamy’s been feeling antsy ever since the curse was broken, so he ends up heading back into the Library. They have a lot of amazing primary sources from ancient civilizations; he can’t think of anything better to do with his day off than read them.

Well, he can. It involves finding Clarke and telling her his mouth works a lot better when he’s conscious, and he’d love to give her a demonstration. Or, more likely, a much, much more embarrassing declaration.

But that sounds terrible, so, yeah. Reading. Reading is the answer.

Clarke’s already there when he arrives, sitting at one of the tables, pouring over an Egyptian medical text. Because of course she is. How could she not be? That’s just how his life works right now.

He nods, grabs his own book, and sits down across from her, because it would probably be weirder if he sat somewhere else. They’re teammates. Friends, even.

She’s his true love, maybe, if that’s really a thing.

They can definitely sit at the same table.

“Honestly, we don’t even know if it would have worked for anyone,” she says, after about twenty minutes of dead silence.

“What?” he asks.

“I mean, honestly, the whole _true love_ angle of those curses depends a lot on the version and the translation. And how do you even _tell_? I was the first person who kissed you. There’s no evidence it had anything to do with it being _me_. For all we know, anyone could have done it.”

“Oh,” he says, taken aback.

“So, yeah. It’s not–a big deal. Or anything. It doesn’t have to be a big deal. You can stop acting like–” She huffs. “Anyone could have done it.”

He swallows hard. “Yeah,” he finally says. “But you did.”

“I lost rock-paper-scissors.”

“Clarke.”

“You can stop being weird,” she says, like she’s rehearsed this. “I haven’t found any proof that the true love thing is universal. Outside of, like, Disney movies. Anyone could have kissed you.”

“Got it,” he says. She’s not looking at him, so he gets up and sits down next to her. “Honestly, I don’t really care.”

She tries to glare at him, startles when she realizes he’s by her side now, and redirects her expression. “If you don’t care, why are you acting weird?”

“I don’t really believe in true love,” he admits. “I don’t think that’s a thing. Not how Disney movies mean it, anyway.” He wets his lips. “But, uh. If I had one, I’d want it to be you.”

For a split second, she looks shocked, and then it melts into relief and happiness, and she’s leaning over to kiss him again. The scent of her is still overwhelming, in the best way, and her lips are just as warm as he remembers, but so much better when he can respond, when he can press back into her, tangle his hand in her hair, lick into her mouth until she’s whimpering, trying to get as close as she can on the bench.

It’s almost painful to end the kiss, but it would probably worse to keep going.

“That was amazingly romantic,” she says, once she’s caught her breath. “You know, for you.”

“Thanks.” He brushes his mouth against hers one more time. “We should get out of here.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s a library,” he says. “You’re supposed to be quiet in libraries. And I really don’t want you to be quiet.”

Her surprised, delighted laugh is his new favorite sound. “Yeah, when you put it like that.” She offers him her hand again, but this time she doesn’t let go after she pulls him up. “We should definitely get out of here.”

He was totally wrong about the solo thing. Honestly, he works so much better on a team.


	37. First Comes Marriage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [mousebitten](http://mousebitten.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: Bellarke + we're friends who got married for FAFSA release reasons, now college is over and we're in the same city and we're still married and it's weird

Clarke’s never taken marriage very seriously, as an institution. Not in a particularly disrespectful way, she doesn’t hate it or anything. But she’s never understood taking it as this deadly serious, irreversible choice. It’s not _hard_ to stop being married, depending on how many assets you have. As far as she’s concerned, marriage is a choice you should make if it’s the right one for you, and you should stop being married once it stops being the right choice.

Which is how she ends up getting married to Bellamy Blake her sophomore year of college.

It’s Bellamy’s idea, in that he’s the one who collapses into the seat next to her at their usual bar and says, “Fuck, I’m going to have to leave school.”

“Why?” asks Miller.

“Is everything okay with your sister?” Clarke adds.

He gives her a grateful smile. Bellamy’s three years older than she is, but still only a sophomore himself, because he dropped out of school for a while to take care of his sister, until her grandmother appeared from the woodwork to take over. Clarke knows that every time his phone rings, he’s sure it’s bad news about Octavia.

“O’s fine. My funding fell through.” He shrugs, deliberate, trying to play it off. “Financial aid is a fragile ecosystem,” he continues. “One small change and the whole thing falls apart. My rates changed, so–”

“So what?” Clarke demands. “There’s still months before next semester. We can find you some other scholarships, new funding. How hard have you looked?”

He huffs a small laugh. “Not at all, yes. I literally found out right before my TA session tonight, so all I’ve done is uselessly worry and decide I want to get drunk. Speaking of which, let’s do that.”

“Obviously,” she agrees. “But we’re looking into this tomorrow. It’s not that hard to find funding.”

“You know I’ve found a lot more scholarships than you have, right?” he asks, but he sounds more amused than annoyed. “But sure, knock yourself out. For now, you can buy my first round.”

“Fine. But if they card me and I get kicked out, you’re paying for your own.”

“Deal.”

He still seems a little surprised when she shows up the next morning, like he didn’t _really_ think she was serious. Which, honestly, he should know better; they’ve been friends for almost two years. He knows exactly how dedicated she is when she has a project.

He gets coffee going while she reviews the scholarships and grants he already has, checking out how he’s supplementing his financial aid. Unfortunately, he’s broadly right about the state of his funding; he’s wringing everything he can out of the government, and if he increases his loans much more, he’ll be in so much debt it won’t even matter if he graduates.

“I told you,” he says, when he sees her expression.

“Shut up. We’re going to figure this out.”

“Yeah, unless I get married, I’m pretty much screwed.”

Clarke pauses. “What do you mean, _unless you get married_?”

He hands her a mug of coffee. “There’s a FAFSA thing. You get breaks if you’re married. I don’t remember the exact details, but–”

She’s already looking it up. “Great, so you just get married.”

“Yeah, so easy. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it.” When she doesn’t respond, he adds, “Clarke, I can’t just get married.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t marry myself.”

“I’ll marry you,” she says, absent. “If it’s a good deal. Get married for a couple years, divorce after college, we’re all set.”

It’s not until she finishes reading the FAFSA page that she realizes he hasn’t said anything, and she nudges him, gives him a smile.

“Seriously, this would work. I want to live off-campus next year anyway, and I can get some benefits too. Save more of my dad’s money, be in better shape for after college. We should talk to a lawyer, but we definitely shouldn’t just write this one off.”

He opens and closes his mouth a couple times, and finally says, “If a lawyer really thinks it would work.”

She beams. “See? I told you I’d figure it out.”

*

It’s a great system, for two years. The marriage is quick and easy and, as a bonus, completely horrifies her mother when she finds out. Bellamy’s an excellent roommate, once they get used to each other and stop passive-aggressively refusing to take the recycling out because they’re both convinced it’s the others turn, and she already spent most of her time with him, so it’s more convenient than anything. She has a nice apartment, she’s saving money, and she gets to live with her best friend. Honestly, it’s one of her better decisions. More people should get casually married for financial convenience. They don’t know what they’re missing out on.

And then, it’s senior year, and they’re graduating soon, and they’re, well.

They’re _still_ married.

Of course they need to stay married, until after graduation, probably. It’s possible it would have been okay to divorce once they finished financing Bellamy’s senior year, but it’s a better-safe-than-sorry situation. The last thing she wants to do is jeopardize his financial aid this late in the game.

So she doesn’t mention it, in the months leading up to graduation. And he doesn’t either. In fact, they’re not mentioning it for so long and with so much dedication that by the end of the school year, they still haven’t said a thing about it. They both have post-graduation plans, of course, but they’re staying in town.

They could, in theory, stay in the same apartment. Their lease isn’t up until September. It wouldn’t be bad at all; he’s a great roommate, and it would suck to get used to someone else, when she doesn’t have to.

“You know this is a lot stupider than your recycling chicken, right?” Wells asks. He’s the only one of her friends who’s willing to bring up the issue, which is enough to nearly make her ignore his calls. “You can’t just spend the rest of your life pretending you’re not married.”

“That’s not my plan. I don’t want to do that.”

“Okay, so tell him you want to _be_ married.”

Wells is far from the only person willing to tell her that. It’s commonly accepted wisdom that she and Bellamy are into each other. And it’s not really inaccurate, in her case. It’s not why she agreed to marry him, of course; she hadn’t even been thinking about that. If she had been, she probably would have assumed that marrying Bellamy would have helped with her little crush. Familiarity breeds contempt, or whatever.

That one didn’t work out at all.

“I think divorce chicken is great,” she lies. “If neither of us ever says anything, we just stay married. It’s perfect.”

“I feel like you can probably do better than a sexless sham marriage. Just saying. I don’t care how desperate you are, that’s just sad.”

“That’s not what I’m doing. I just haven’t figured out what to say yet, okay? It’s a weird conversation.”

“Man, I can’t believe getting married to a guy you’re into to get a break on college tuition is getting awkward. Who saw that coming? It’s not like I specifically warned you that–”

“I’m hanging up now,” she says, and that’s a pretty good metaphor for how she deals with the entire thing. She’s hanging up the phone on the entire issue. At least until Bellamy brings it up.

There’s no way she’s cracking first.

The first month after graduation is honestly pretty great. Bellamy starts working immediately, but she has a week off, and then her job starts too, and it’s–

Fuck, it’s _so_ domestic. They ride the train into work together, but not home, because he works closer to their apartment and gets off work earlier, so by the time she’s home, he’s usually already in the kitchen, cooking something amazing for dinner. She does the dishes after, and then they’ll sit on the couch together, reading or watching Netflix or playing video games. They still hang out with college friends sometimes, but as a unit.

They are, not to put too fine a point on it, _so_ married. Literally. And she loves it.

The last week of June, Bellamy finally has to bring it up.

“Hey, so, my coworker’s having a barbecue next week,” he says. “For the Fourth.”

“Oh,” says Clarke. They don’t have plans, and she doesn’t particularly care about the holiday, but she was looking forward to having an extra day off with him. “Cool. That sounds fun.”

He’s lying on the couch with his head dangling off the arm, so she can’t see his face. And his tone is unreadable when he says, “She said I should bring my significant other.”

“Yeah, that makes sense.”

He huffs. “I’m pretty cool with lying by omission. I’ve never told them I’m _not_ married. But–”

“Yeah. It’s different to be at a thing, and–”

“And you’re in all my stories, even if you don’t come.”

“Do you want me to?” she finally asks.

There’s no hesitation. “Yeah.”

“This is a pretty important conversation for us to be having when you’re upside down on the couch,” she points out. Her heart is racing.

“Yeah, honestly, it’s starting to hurt my neck. I thought it would make me look casual and unconverted, but, Jesus, it just sucks.”

It’s just so–Bellamy. He can’t even try to act casual without being a totally dramatic mess about it.

“Sit up,” she says, and when he does, she leans in and kisses him. His response is instant and sure, kissing back eagerly, and he’s on his back on the couch under her before she realizes they still haven’t had a conversation.

“I have no idea what prompted that,” Bellamy says. He looks a little dazed. “Tell me so I can do it more.”

She laughs and kisses him again, briefer this time. “I just like you,” she assures him.

“Wow, that was all it took?” He slides his hand into her hair, eyes soft as he gazes up at her. “I like you too. I want you to be my plus one to, uh, everything. Forever.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s how marriage is supposed to work, yeah.”

“What, it’s not just for tax benefits? I can’t believe no one told me.” He worries his lip. “You know, if I’d known all it took was asking, I would have proposed within, like, three weeks of meeting you.”

“Romantic,” she teases, like it’s not the best thing she’s ever heard.

“Like yours was so great,” he shoots back.

“It got you through college.” She leans down, kisses him again. She can’t get enough of it. “But the tax benefits are still pretty good. I don’t see why we’d get divorced now.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, tugging her closer. “Not when it’s finally getting good.”


	38. Canonverse - Another Day in Paradise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [lindsayloveslife](http://lindsayloveslife.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: Canonverse, post-series: Bellamy proposes to Clarke

It starts the same way most days do: the sound of the morning bells waking Clarke up much earlier than she wants to be woken, and her burying her face against Bellamy’s collarbone. It’s getting cold, which makes it worse; at least in summer, she’s eager to wash the sweat off.

“Do we have to get up?” she asks.

“At least briefly,” he says. “If you want to take the day off, we probably have to tell someone.” He presses his lips against her hair. “But I don’t think anyone would stop us.”

It’s much less responsible than his usual answer, which is dislodging her from his chest and throwing the covers off the bed without mercy, forcing her to get dressed or freeze, and she squints up at him, wary.

“That’s it?”

“What’s it?”

“You’re not going to just tell me to get up?”

“You deserve a day,” he says.

She sighs and drags herself out of bed. “It’s just early,” she says. “It’s fine.” And then, because it _was_ sweet of him, she leans down and presses her mouth against his, quick and soft. “I appreciate it, though. We should plan to take some time off soon. You haven’t been getting enough sleep lately.”

“I know. I’m working on it.”

“Come to bed earlier,” she says. “It’s not hard. I actually have a chance to fall asleep before you wake me up for sex. That’s how late you’re staying up.”

He wraps his arms around her, presses his lips to her jaw. “I know. And I really appreciate that you’d rather get woken up in the middle of the night than go without getting laid.” He slides his hand under her shirt, teasing. “We could definitely be late. Just this once.”

“You’re a bad influence,” she says, twisting out of his arms. She leans up for a quick kiss. “See you at lunch?”

He looks confused for a second, and then a smile breaks out. “Yeah, lunch. Sounds good.”

It’s definitely a break in their normal morning routine, and it bugs her a little, but she has too much to do for it to seriously bother her. At least Harper seems to realize she’s tired and cranky, because she gives Clarke an extra muffin and a big smile, and sees her out of the mess with a bright, “I hope you have a great day!”

Which would be nice, but she has a morning shift at the clinic, which is her least favorite thing. She became a doctor on the ground basically by default, because when they came down, they didn’t have anyone else to do it. Now, they have plenty of more experienced medics, and she’s reduced her commitments there a great deal. But it still feels–dangerous. Just giving it up. She may need to know these things, in the future.

In the present, it’s still the most exhausting part of her week.

“Thanks for coming in to do this today,” her mother says, when she’s done, like she doesn’t do it every Wednesday. “What are you and Bellamy up to this afternoon?”

She stifles a yawn. “Supply run to one of the new bunkers. We’re hoping to find some more winter clothes.”

“Hm,” her mother hums. “I assume you’ll be back for dinner, though.”

“Unless the weather turns bad, yeah.”

“Good, I’ll see you then. Have fun with Bellamy.”

Her last patient canceled, so she has time to stop by the classroom before lunch. Bellamy’s teaching history today, telling the kids about how the agriculture they use now on the ground is based on previous societies, how they learned techniques from ancient Egyptians and Romans. Clarke loves watching him teach, the way he can’t help talking with his hands, the way his eyes light up when he remembers something particularly interesting. It’s strange, looking back at the days when she was sure Bellamy Blake was some selfish asshole who wanted nothing more than anarchy and violence.

He was good at being a rebel, but she thinks he’s happier when he’s got a society he doesn’t need to rebel against.

“Okay guys,” he says, when the noon bell rings. “Ms. Yu is coming for to do reading with you after lunch. Everyone have their gloves and hats?”

“Yes, Mr. Blake!” they chorus. His students are pre-school age, but he’s got them well trained.

“Good. See you tomorrow.”

He waits until they’ve all filed out before he comes to the back of the room to give her a kiss.

“Good lesson.”

“Thanks. How was your shift?”

“Same as ever. My mom thanked me for coming in, at least. That was nice of her.”

He snorts. “Yeah. Nice.”

“Am I missing something?” she asks, following him out toward the mess hall. “You’re acting weird.”

“You’re definitely missing something,” he says. “I’m going to grab food, you want to grab the rover?”

“You’re not going to tell me what?”

“I’m hoping you’ll figure it out.” He grins. “I promise it’s nothing bad.”

“Bellamy taking you out?” Raven asks, when she gets to the garage.

“As far as I know we’re going to one of the bunkers to get supplies,” Clarke says. “But apparently everyone but me knows something else is going on.”

“You don’t know?” Raven asks.

“How would I know?” she asks. “I’m not the one who’s acting weird. But even my _mom_ knows.”

“Yeah, she better.” She tosses Clarke the keys. “Seriously, have fun.”

“I’d have more fun if someone just told me what was happening,” she mutters, and Raven snorts.

“Trust me, you should be able to figure it out.”

It’s not the most helpful statement, but Raven’s definitely not going to tell her, so she’s just going to have to wait for Bellamy. She tries to figure it out, but–she can’t think of anything she _should_ be remembering. They don’t have any diplomatic missions coming up. It’s not a holiday. It’s not their anniversary.

“If you don’t tell me what’s going on, I’m not going with you,” she informs him, when he jumps into the rover with food and packs.

He grins. “Sorry.”

“Is that a _sorry for not telling you sooner_ or _sorry I’m still not telling you_?”

“What’s today?” he asks.

“If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking you!”

“Humor me.”

“It’s Wednesday.”

“Yup.”

“It’s–November?”

“What’s in November?”

“Noth–” she starts, and shuts her mouth. “It’s my birthday,” she says.

“It’s your birthday. I wasn’t even trying to do something nice to surprise you, I figured you knew.”

She leans back, closing her eyes. “It’s my birthday.”

“Yeah. Happy birthday.”

“Fuck. I thought of our anniversary, I thought of Unity Day, but–”

“It’s not like we ever do much for it. But you usually at least remember it’s happening.”

“I know _your_ birthday.”

“And our anniversary. All the important stuff.” He leans over to kiss her. “I would have told you, but–seriously, I couldn’t resist.”

“Dick,” she says.

“Yeah, you knew that from day one. Are you going to drive?”

“I don’t even know where we’re going.”

“Bunker. But–we’re staying the night.”

“Shit, I told my mom I’d be back for dinner. She probably wanted to wish me a happy birthday or something.”

“I ran into her in the mess, don’t worry. She did ask if you didn’t know what day it was.”

“I _never_ know what day it is!” she protests, but she’s laughing now. It is a little ridiculous. She can’t even blame him; she would have done the same thing. “Is my birthday present really a romantic night in a bunker?”

He grins. “Don’t say I never do anything nice for you.”

They’re most of the way there when she realizes exactly which bunker they’re going to: the first one they went to together, all those years ago. The one where they found the guns and she realized how bad it would be, if he left. The day before that, if anyone had told her Bellamy Blake was thinking of leaving, she would have been thrilled.

“A lot can happen in a day.” she says, and he laughs.

“A lot can happen in five years,” he counters.

“Yeah, but–that was the day.”

“Yeah. That was the day.”

It’s clear when they go in that he’s been here recently, gotten it cleaned up and winterized. The mattress has been repaired, and it’s not exactly somewhere she’d like to live, but it’s still a nice gesture.

“You really went all-out,” she observes.

“Yeah.” He wets his lips. “I just–I’ve been thinking a lot about it.”

“Way more than I have, apparently.”

“Yeah, well.” He clears his throat. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Bellamy, if you brought me here to tell me you’re leaving again, I swear I’m going to–”

“No, fuck, that’s not–” He laughs, face lighting up with it. “Do you have any idea how hard you’re making this for me? I’ve spent the whole day trying to do nice shit for you and you didn’t even notice, and now you’re not even letting me get through my speech.”

“Oh, wow, you’re giving a speech?” she asks. “It really is just like old times.”

He guides her to the cot, sitting down next to her and taking her hands in his. “You want just like old times? I’ve got a plan all figured out, and here you are just derailing my whole life.”

“Fine, I get it. Give me the speech. It sounds great. You were telling me how you’d be lost without me.”

“That’s not what I was saying,” he says, fond. “But it’s true. I can barely remember what my life was like without you. And it’s not just because that was on the Ark. You’re the first person in my life who ever made me feel like what I was doing was enough. Like I was doing something right. And it hasn’t always been perfect, but–imperfect with you is better than perfect with anyone else. Imperfect with you is the best thing I’ve ever had. And I was honestly going to do this on our anniversary, but–fuck, I’ve been waiting long enough. I can’t wait any longer.” He slides his thumb over her fingers. “Will you marry me?”

Somehow, she hadn’t seen it coming at all. She figured she’d marry Bellamy, was looking forward to it, even, but–she had no idea _when_.

Then again, she also didn’t know it was her birthday. She’s not exactly on top of anything right now.

“Yeah,” she says, when she realizes she hasn’t yet. “Fuck, of course, Bellamy. I’ll–yes.”

The kiss she lands is messy and off-center, and he’s laughing into it, smiling too hard for it to last, but she doesn’t mind.

“Okay, well, at least _that_ worked,” he teases. “I was starting to worry you’d come up some crisis we had to deal with this afternoon and ditch me.”

“It’s not like you had to do it today. Or here. It was really sweet,” she adds, brushing a curl of hair off his temple. “Don’t get me wrong. But–all you had to do was ask, Bellamy.”

“I know. Sometimes I like to do nice things for you. It _is_ your birthday.”

She laughs. “It is, yeah.” This time, the kiss is long and slow, perfect. “My best yet. Thanks.”


	39. It Doesn't Show Signs of Stopping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [hunkydory84](http://hunkydory84.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: Bellarke, huddling for warmth/snowed in, either canonverse or modern AU-whatever you feel like.

Bellamy kind of likes working Christmas Eve, which he knows is weird. His boss always tells his that he doesn’t _have_ to work, vaguely guilty, like he didn’t agree to it. Even when she’s around, he and Octavia don’t ever do family stuff until dinner time, so it’s not like he has family obligations he’s missing out on, and he’s usually the only one on the train and in the office, which is awesome. He blasts loud obnoxious music and gets a ton done without any of his coworkers bothering him.

Okay, so when he puts it like that, he sounds like the protagonist of a movie about someone learning a holiday lesson from a bunch of ghosts, but seriously, he’s just introverted. He’s not making anyone else suffer with his antisocial tendencies. He’s just living his life. He’s not hurting anybody.

He’s finished with most of his paperwork by early afternoon, and he’s just diving into listening to Lemonade while he cleans and organizes his desk, when he hears someone say, “Hello?”

Irrationally, he looks down to check his outfit, even though he knows, completely and for certain, without a doubt, that he is wearing his normal clothes and looks completely presentable. It’s not like listening to Beyoncé is a crime. As far as he’s concerned, _not_ listening to Beyoncé is the real crime.

Still, he turns off the music and sticks his head out into the hallway, where he sees Clarke Griffin shaking out her coat and getting off her hat. Her cheeks are chapped and red, and her hair is curling and damp from the snow.

She looks pretty, because of course she looks pretty. She always looks pretty. One of his big personal regrets is the way he screwed it up with her, making a shitty first impression and doubling down on it instead of making amends. They’re no longer actively antagonizing each other like they used to, but he thinks they could have been friends.

Maybe even something more. But–they’re friendly. That’s a good place to start.

“Bellamy?” Clarke asks. “What are you doing here?”

“Working. What are you doing here?”

“Have you looked out the window? Or checked any kind of social media?”

“Uh, the shutters are closed? I don’t like the sun coming in. And–no? What’s up?”

“It’s a blizzard outside. I didn’t check the weather report before I left the house, but they shut down the train, so–”

“They shut down the train?” he asks. They _never_ shut down the train. “Already?”

“I can’t believe you didn’t hear. What were you doing?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Uh, cleaning my desk. I had my computer off so I could clean under it, and I wasn’t looking at my phone, so–fuck. I didn’t even know there was a storm coming in.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, but it looks kind of fond. “Why am I not surprised? You didn’t notice a fire alarm going off.”

“ _Once_ ,” he protests. “Shit. Is the train coming back?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. I figured I’d hang out here while I figured out what to do? I guess I could get a taxi or something, maybe? Or walk. You should get home, though.”

“I take the train too,” he says. “If it’s down, I’m as stranded as you are. Fuck.”

“Sorry,” she says, and he snorts.

“For what? If you hadn’t showed up, I would have walked into a blizzard.”

“And now you know you’re stuck at your office for the foreseeable future. Huge improvement.”

He shrugs. “We’re inside and warm. The power hasn’t gone out. It could be worse. There are still leftovers in the fridge from the holiday party. I think we’re going to survive this.” And then he remembers that she didn’t really seem to be planning to stay, clears his throat. “Uh, unless you want to just get a taxi or something. I’m not saying you have to give up hope yet. You could still get out.”

To his profound relief, she bursts out laughing.

“You make it sound like you’re going to die in here,” she teases. “Spending the night in the office really isn’t the end of the world.”

“Yeah, but–it’s Christmas Eve,” he protests. “If the train doesn’t come back, you’re going to be stuck here until Christmas morning.”

“What, you think Santa isn’t going to find me?” She worries her lip, regarding him critically. “You don’t seem worried about missing Christmas.”

“I didn’t have Christmas plans. And not in a bad way,” he adds quickly. “It’s basically impossible to say you don’t have Christmas plans without having someone assume it’s the fucking apocalypse. My sister moved to Japan last summer and she’s not coming home for Christmas. We’ll do a skype call at some point. I don’t really have to be home for anything. But I assume you have–”

“Friends or loved ones?” she says, but it’s doesn’t sound like she’s feeling sorry for him. It’s still just kind of–teasing.

“I have at least one friend,” he says. “But, yeah. I assume you have plans.”

“Nothing I’m heartbroken to miss,” she admits. “My mom and my stepdad are having this huge Christmas brunch, which is a fancy party with a ton of people I don’t know. And it’s a few hours’ drive, so–honestly, if I was stuck in the office until the roads were cleared, it wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

“Wow. You were actively hoping for an act of god to get you out of this, huh?”

She snorts. “Of course not. But I’m not going to look a gift act of god in the mouth.”

That gets him laughing too. “Oh, right, of course not. Don’t want to offend the act of god.”

“Definitely not.”

“So,” he asks, grinning. “Are you hungry?”

They get his music playing again while they raid the fridge, and when he checks his phone he finds that Miller, Gina, and Raven all texted him about the blizzard, and Miller even tried to call. Which means a lot, coming from Miller.

“Apparently the train’s shut down until tomorrow at least,” he says. “But it might clear up enough by tonight that we don’t actually have to sleep here.”

“Yeah,” Clarke agrees. “I wouldn’t mind going home tonight and then saying I was too tired to drive with the roads like this tomorrow morning.”

“As long as you’ve still got a plan to get out of your brunch. That was really my big issue.”

“Your concern means the world to me.”

It’s actually pretty companionable. Clarke helps him finish cleaning his desk and teases him that this is what he’s doing on _Christmas Eve_ , and he threatens to call her rich mom.

“I bet she’d send a helicopter to rescue us.”

“You’re acting like blizzards are less safe for trains than helicopters. Why do you think they always shut down airports first?”

“I’m just saying, I bet if I called your mom, she’d come throw money at the problem until it went away.”

“That is her favorite thing to do with problems,” she agrees, and smiles before she changes the subject, like she’s trying to tell him there are no hard feelings.

They manage dinner and the wifi and electricity are still working, so they end up huddled over Clarke’s iPad, watching Netflix on the couch in the reception room.

As first dates go, it’s honestly one of his best.

The heat shuts off at nine, and Clarke swears.

“We could try to call someone,” she says. “Maybe they have remote access. An emergency line. They must have _something_.”

“We probably should have called someone as soon as we got stuck here.”

“Yeah,” she says, grinning. “But we were having so much fun.”

Bellamy ends up prepping the couch into an arctic defense fort while Clarke tries to get in touch with maintenance. Their official statement is that they can’t get anyone out there to get the heat back on, but they direct her to the location of a few fire blankets, and she raids those.

They both stare at the couch for a minute once they’re done, and then he offers, “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Nope,” she says. “We’re sharing. Body heat. Also, then we don’t split up the blankets and coats.” And then, before he can argue, she unhooks her bra under her shirt and slides it off. “You get in first, okay? I call little spoon.”

He only hesitates because he can’t decide how many layers to lose, ends up going down to his boxers and undershirt. Clarke loses her jeans and tucks herself right up against him, and he hooks his arm around her as much for security as anything. It’s not a large couch.

“Okay,” she says, with no apparent awkwardness. “One more episode of Archer?”

When he wakes up, he’s way, way too warm, and of course hard. Clarke has managed to shift in the night so she’s burrowed against his chest, and her hair is getting in his nose.

He can’t possibly get up without waking her, but he does shift a little, so his dick is less–pressing. He can’t imagine she’d blame him for a basic physiological reaction, but it’s still feels polite.

That’s enough to make her stir in his arms, leg brushing against his erection anyway as she moves. At least she doesn’t seem upset or startled.

“Hey,” he says, voice coming out rough.

She stretches and then snuggles back against him. “Hi.”

“Heat’s back.”

“Yeah.”

“We could check the–”

She leans up and presses her mouth to his, warm and soft, and suddenly he’s no longer achy and sore and too warm.

Well, he’s way too warm. But in a very different way.

The kiss isn’t that long, which is just as well, because he needs to go to the bathroom and get some water and ideally some coffee, but it’s a kiss that holds the promise of a lot more kisses to come, and he chases her mouth when she pulls away, just to make sure she knows he’s looking forward to those.

She laughs. “Sorry, I should have asked. But I’ve been wanting to do that for a while.”

“No problem. Me too.”

She does press one more quick kiss to his lips before she slides off the couch. “Cool. Merry Christmas, Bellamy.”

“Yeah.” He can’t stop grinning. “Merry Christmas.”


	40. First You Get the Sugar, Then You Get the Power, Then You Get the Women

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [adhdstephaniebrown](http://adhdstephaniebrown.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: Bellarke competing against each other on a cooking show (I'm thinking either Cupcake Wars or Cutthroat Kitchen, but whatever).

When Octavia suggested they rebrand their family bakery as a cupcake shop, he honestly thinks she’s fucking with him. They’re struggling as a full bakery, so how could taking out most of their stock and switching to _cupcakes_ possibly save them?

In his sister’s defense, she doesn’t just give up on the argument. She does her research, presents her numbers, and Bellamy has to admit, cupcakes might keep them afloat for a few years. If the bubble bursts, they can still rebrand again. It’s worth getting some new furniture and a paint job regardless, and that’s not cupcake-specific. It’s just logical. They need a new look.

Plus, they’ve always been pretty good at cupcakes. Bellamy’s got the technical skills, and he started Octavia doing frosting and decoration as soon as she could hold a pastry bag, happy to give her something to occupy herself so he could focus on his own work. Even he’ll admit she’s not as skilled as the best decorators, but her work is solid, and the taste can’t be beat. If overcharging hipsters for fancy cupcakes is something that’s profitable now, Bellamy has to admit that they could probably make money off it.

And they do. They change _Blake’s Bakery_ to _Blakes’ Bakes_ , which makes his eye twitch when he thinks about it, but he’s deferring to his sister on all branding decisions. She could scam hipsters on a professional level.

“This _is_ scamming hipsters on a professional level, Bell,” she points out, and he rolls his eyes.

“You know what I mean.”

She’s the one who convinces him to try out for Cupcake Wars, and he doesn’t actually fight that one because he’s more than willing to just go with her on these things, by this point. He’s still in denial that cupcakes are enough of a thing for there to be a show about it, so she’s the expert by default.

He’s not surprised that they make it to interviews; they have a pretty great backstory for reality TV–dead parents, fraught custody battle, heroically rescuing the struggling family business with the power of cupcakes–and they’re both talented and photogenic. If he was casting for a baking TV show, he’d definitely want them.

“This is actually perfect,” the casting agent says. “We’re planning to do an episode showcasing Boston bakers.”

Bellamy’s jaw ticks, and Octavia puts her hand on his arm before he can say anything. Not that he _would_ , but–

“I assume you know some of the other local businesses,” the woman continues.

“Yeah, of course,” says Octavia, smooth. “Do you have the others picked yet? Are you allowed to tell us?”

“Right now we’re looking at a few different places. Somerville Sweets, Miss Mary’s, Clarkecakes Catering–”

“Oh, we know Clarke,” Octavia tells her, to Bellamy’s shock. She leans in, conspiratorial. “Between you and me? She and Bell kind of have a history.”

“O–”

The casting woman lights up. “Do they? Romantic history?”

“Absolutely not,” he snaps, way too quickly.

“More like rivals,” says Octavia. “It was _hilarious_. We both got hired to cater the same event, and she and Bell both assumed they were in charge and the other was some random person hired to help out. They couldn’t stop fighting, until Lincoln–that’s Clarke’s partner–just started baking without them because time was running out. Then they got their act together. So now every time they see each other it’s just, like–”

“She’s a very talented decorator,” Bellamy says. O elbows him, so he adds, “But, yeah. We don’t really get along.”

It’s not _entirely_ true; they tend to snipe at each other, but they do it in a kind of friendly way. If they’re in the same place, they’ll always find each other to snipe, and he’d rather bicker with Clarke than talk to most people. She’s _good_ at it.

“Good to know,” says the casting director. “We’ll be in touch.”

“Did you have to bring up Clarke?” he asks, once she’s gone.

“She brought up Clarke. And don’t act like it’s not a great idea. Reality shows eat this shit up. They’re definitely going to cast us.”

“And Clarke.”

“And Clarke,” she confirms. “You’re welcome.”

*

“Is this where we talk shit?” Clarke asks.

They’re in hair and makeup, which Bellamy is not a fan of. He wants to concentrate on cooking, not all the shit on his face. What if it melts off under the light and contaminates the food? The last thing he wants is gross, soggy makeup on his cupcakes.

“I think we’re supposed to wait until we’re on camera for that. They’ll want to see the hate. Hey, Clarke,” he adds.

“Hey. I hear we’re rivals.”

“O’s story, not mine.”

“What would you have said?”

“Honestly, I would have pretended I didn’t know you to avoid talking about it. I might not be cut out for reality TV.”

She laughs, and his mouth twitches. Clarke has the kind of laugh that always makes him want to smile too, mostly out of pride. He likes making her laugh.

_Rivals_ really isn’t the right word. _Playground crush_ might be. That’s the level of maturity he’s working with, when it comes to her.

“What do you think they’re going to have us do?” she asks, and they chat about possible challenges until it’s time to go.

“I’d worry about you guys not bringing the drama,” O remarks, “but as soon as a competition starts, you won’t be able to help yourselves.”

He’d like to argue the point, but Clarke catches his eye and grins. “She’s not wrong,” she points out.

He smiles, wry, and shrugs. “Yeah, okay. You’re going down, Griffin.”

The theme for the episode is the children’s museum, which wasn’t one of the things they’d come up with. Bellamy was assuming they’d go with sports, mostly because he hates sports and assumes nothing will ever go well with him, and Clarke was hoping for the aquarium, so they could attempt to make savory fish cupcakes. Which is an idea that will haunt his nightmares.

But he can work with the children’s museum. The first round, they have to use a list of ingredients that a group of kids came up with, which is mixed, but he and O used to play a game when they were kids where she’d give him things to cook with and he’d come up with a meal out of it. He can roll with this stuff.

The first competitors knocked out are Maya and Gina, whom Bellamy really likes, but he can’t say he’s surprised they don’t last. Not only are they not involved in his and Clarke’s second-nature sniping and bickering, but they’re pretty outclassed. It’s the right choice both in terms of baking and drama.

The second round is tougher for him; if he’s honest, Bellamy’s better with restrictions than he is with freedom. He’s not used to having all the resources he wants to work with, so limitations are easy for him to deal with. But he and Octavia went to the museum a lot when she was a kid, and they come up with cupcakes themed to the exhibits they remember: a sparkling cider cupcake with blue cream cheese frosting for the bubble room, a two-layer vanilla-and-red-velvet cupcake with red ganache frosting for the climbing structure, and a green-tea cupcake decorated with strawberry frosting shaped like cherry blossoms for the Japanese house.

Clarke and Lincoln went for a more general childhood theme–dirt cake cupcakes, a ball of chocolate and vanilla marble cake served in an ice-cream cone, decorated with white fudge icing and rainbow sprinkles, and a lemonade cupcake with mint frosting.

Monty and Jasper have gone heavy on the molecular gastronomy, which is kind of their thing, but apparently they did way too much technique and not enough taste, especially for the guest judge, who’s worrying about serving a bunch of kids such alarming treats. Personally, Bellamy thinks kids would think the foam and weird gummi gel balls were awesome. But he can’t even pretend the decision only makes sense from a dramatic standpoint.

Still, it’s the showdown Octavia set up in that first interview: him versus Clarke, with Octavia and Lincoln being fondly amused in their general direction.

And, really, he wouldn’t want it any other way.

The last round is too stressful for much more than random sniping in passing; Clarke’s a better decorator than Octavia, but he’s a a better baker than Lincoln, so he thinks it could go either way. Clarke helps out a little when O’s piping falls through, and when she’s rushing to finish off her plating, he steps in to help her too. If he wins, he wants to win _honestly_.

Besides, he’s done his best. No matter how it turns out, he can be proud.

They all get everything finished and arranged without further incident, and Bellamy lets out a sigh of relief, practically sagging with it. He hugs O and then Clarke, leaves his arm around her shoulders for the judging when she doesn’t try to move.

“Good?” she asks, soft.

“Good. You?”

“Awesome.”

*

When it airs, they watch the show together, and it’s–kind of a lot. They both knew the outcome, of course, and Clarke has been pretending that she thinks she lost because he and O had the better sob story ever since, but he didn’t know how they’d come across, all flirty, playful banter and genuine admiration for each other in talking heads. She hugs him tight when he wins, and he hugs her back, and then Octavia, and then her again. It’s a lot of hugging.

And it’s–really obvious. For both of them.

“Wow,” says Clarke.

“Yeah.”

“That was–enlightening.”

It’s a more encouraging descriptor than he was expecting, but he still can’t read her tone. “Yeah?”

“I mean, seriously, I’m a way better decorator than your sister, and you’re a way better baker than Lincoln. I think we could probably work with that. If you were willing to stop being rivals. I wouldn’t mind having a storefront, and we could do some amazing stuff together.” It’s a good idea, but he’s still disappointed, right up until she ducks her head and adds, “We could maybe talk about it over dinner?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I’d love to.”

*

Ceres Cupcakes opens six months later, thanks in large part to a pretty great PR boost from the Cupcake Wars episode.

What can he say? People really do love a happy ending.


	41. My Name in Lights at Carnegie Hall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [blakesreign](http://blakesreign.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: I would absolutely adore a fic with the delinquents as Broadway or West End stars!

When Bellamy says he’s on Broadway, he generally gets two questions: one, is he in _Hamilton_ , and, two, can he get _Hamilton_ tickets. Once he explains that no, no he’s not, and no, no he can’t, the conversation gets kind of awkward. At best, they’ll ask what he is in and pretend to be interested; at worst, they’ll ask if he’s in _Cats_ and sound hopeful about it.

Actually, he’s in _Les Mis_ , and it’s honestly pretty great. Not that he wouldn’t go for _Hamilton_ in a heartbeat, given the chance, but he thinks he’d have to dramatically improve his rapping, and he just doesn’t have the time. As it is, he’s got a good life carved out. He likes his cast mates, he likes his show, and even if conversations with strangers can be kind of awkward, he’s used to that. He is, one hundred percent of the time, awkward with strangers, so he can’t really expect his job to fix that. He is, overall, doing incredibly well.

So when Marcus Kane asks him, at a fundraising dinner, what he does for a living, he says, “I’m on Broadway,” and prepares for the usual awkwardness.

Kane takes a sip of his drink. “Oh, really? What show?”

He wonders how many sentences they’ll make it through before Kane mentions _Hamilton_. He’s giving it five. “ _Les Miserables_.”

“Oh, the revival?”

“Yeah.”

“Which role? One of _les amis_ , I assume.”

“Enjolras,” he says.

“An excellent role. Congratulations.” He pauses, and Bellamy prepares himself for the _Hamilton_ question. But Kane actually says, “Have you heard about the new Cosette?”

“Gina’s leaving, yeah. It’s too bad, she’s an amazing actress.”

Kane nods. “But you haven’t heard about the actual casting?”

“No, not yet.” It’s maybe not totally polite, but he can’t help adding, “Why, have you?”

“By pure coincidence. My stepdaughter got the call this morning.” He brightens, spotting someone behind Bellamy. “I was going to say, they should be coming soon, but here they are now.”

Bellamy turns to look, and it’s like a punch to the throat, immediate and painful, and he can’t quite breathe for a second. Clarke hasn’t seen him yet, her attention on the woman with her, a thin mask of politeness covering up her general dislike of these kinds of events. He remembers her lying on the couch in a fancy dress, her head in his lap, complaining about all the rich assholes her mom knows.

Fuck. _Clarke_.

“Bellamy Blake, this is my wife, Abigail Griffin, and my stepdaughter, Clarke. Clarke, I just found out Bellamy’s in your show.”

Clarke’s expression only falters for a second; her tongue darts out to wet her lips, and then she’s smiling, polite. “Enjolras, right? I saw the cast list.” He can see her doing calculations in her head, making up her mind what to say. “That’s perfect for you.”

Clarke’s mother gives her a sharp look, but Kane doesn’t seem to notice. “Oh, you two know each other?”

“Yeah,” says Bellamy. His voice somehow comes out steady “We went to college together.”

*

Clarke Griffin wasn’t the first person to break his heart. Not to be any more dramatic than usual, but sometimes he feels like his heart came pre-broken, like he never knew what it was like, before her. To just be valued.

She didn’t break his heart first, but she did it worst. That counts for something.

*

“Okay, listen up. I met our new Cosette.”

“When?” asks Murphy.

“Where?” adds Miller.

“Is she hot?” asks Monty.

“Dude,” says Miller.

“Not for _me_ ,” he says. “You know I love you. It’s for Marius. He’s very shallow. I need her to be hot. For my art.”

He’d feel bad about warning his castmates ahead of time, but–they’re _his_ castmates. Clarke took this job, and she knew he was here. He doesn’t owe her anything.

“She’s my ex,” he says. And then, to get the whole thing over with. “Clarke Griffin.”

Monty, Miller, and Murphy exchange a look. “Your ex-girlfriend is Clarke Griffin?” Miller asks.

“I’m surprised she isn’t like one of those carnival rides,” says Murphy. “Must be this rich to fuck, or whatever.”

“Murphy,” he says, and his voice comes out way too harsh. So that’s–good to know, probably. People talking shit about Clarke still isn’t okay. “She’s not like that, okay?”

“Jeez,” says Murphy, holding up his hands. “Touchy.”

“Why are you telling us this?” Miller asks. “Like–what’s my line here?”

Bellamy rubs his face. “Fuck. I don’t know. She’s a good actress and I never wanted to see her again.”

Which isn’t entirely true either. It’s not that he didn’t want to see her; he spent the first few months after their breakup barely resisting the urge to go call her, to see her. But they’d wanted different lives: she went to LA to try to be a movie star, and he went to New York to try to make it on Broadway.

He said they could do long distance, and she said it would never work. She said they could be friends, and she missed all his calls. And when he stopped calling, she never started calling him back.

It was a long, slow process, getting his heart broken by Clarke. And the worst part is, he can still convince himself she didn’t mean to do it.

“I just want everyone to be aware,” he settles on.

“Wow,” says Miller. “That bad, huh?”

“Shut up.”

“Well, on the bright side,” Monty offers, slow. “At least she’s really hot.”

*

They get coffee after her first rehearsal, and it’s just the two of them sitting in stony silence until he breaks and says, “I thought you weren’t into live theater.” And then, because he’s both bitter and just a little bit proud, “Not like you weren’t doing well in Hollywood.”

“I missed it,” she says. “Theater. And other things.”

His jaw works. “You’re seriously going to pull that?”

“I fucked up,” she says, instant. Like it’s been on the verge of breaking out of her. “I know I fucked up.” She exhales. “The first few months, I didn’t know–I couldn’t even think about talking to you without crying. Every time the phone rang, I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how to not beg you to come back. And then I didn’t know how to tell you that.” She bites her lip, and he doesn’t let himself reach for her hand. “I still say you’re my best friend, when people ask. If you want sad and fucked up.”

He can’t help smiling at that, and she smiles too. “I always want sad and fucked up.” He swallows. “So, what is this?”

She exhales. “This is _I’m so, so sorry_. And _I miss you_. And _I want to try again_.”

He wants to ask what, specifically, she wants to try again, but not as much as he doesn’t want to ask. “That’s a lot,” he says instead.

“We can start with sorry and go from there,” she offers, and his smile is more genuine, this time.

“Yeah. That sounds good.”

*

Clarke Griffin becomes a regular part of discussions after that, not eclipsing _Hamilton_ , but joining it. Once he’s established he can’t get tickets, the conversation goes to, “Isn’t Clarke Griffin in a show now?” and he says it’s his and there are some questions about what she’s like and how she is to work with.

The most honest answers are: _the same as always_ and _amazing/terrible_ , but he never gives those. He says _down to earth_ and _great_ and leaves the conversation as soon as possible.

But it’s really staggeringly, amazingly _the same_. He and Clarke don’t forget the past, but they repress it, and once they do, they’re an amazing team, and she slots in next to him organically, unofficial cast spokeswoman right next to him, taking charge, his ally who never lets him get away with anything.

Miller buys him a lot of shots, and he appreciates every one.

They’ve been doing pretty decently, in terms of crowds since they opened, but Clarke’s a huge draw, of course, her first show sold out instantly and plenty more after that. He’s never seen a crowd like the one for her first night, the energy, the excitement.

“I better not suck, huh?” she asks, startling him when she joins him watching from the wings.

“You never do.”

Her smile softens. “I could start.”

“Don’t fish for compliments.” He wets his lips. “Did you miss this? I would have missed this.”

“There’s nothing like live theater,” she says. “I’m going to throw up.”

“Use it.” He lets himself put his arm around her, and she leans into it. “You’re going to do great.”

“Thanks. You are too,” she adds. “But you’re always great. I figured you knew.” She pauses. “I came to opening night. I was going to come say hi, but I didn’t know how.”

“So you just got yourself cast in the show instead. Good plan.”

“Go big or go home.”

“Apparently.” He gives her one more quick squeeze and lets go. “Break a leg.”

He doesn’t manage to talk to her again until the end of the show, when she throws herself into his arms during the general mess of embraces and congratulations. He catches her and holds on, realizes with less pain than he expected that he’s never going to be over Clarke Griffin.

“First round on the Hollywood actress!” Raven calls, and the two of them break apart as everyone else cheers.

“Can’t argue with that logic,” she says, and her hand finds his, almost absent, to tug him behind her.

He goes.

*

He makes it a month before he breaks. A month of being _happy_ , of joking around with Clarke during rehearsals, of herding the rest of the cast into taxis or onto the train after nights out with her, of having her tell him when he does well or could use improvement, the honest, helpful feedback he’s always life. His life was good before, exactly what he wanted, making it in the big city, but it’s so much _better_ like this.

He fucking _missed_ her.

“I can’t do this,” is what he finally tells her.

She’s tucked into his side in a secluded booth in their favorite bar, the one where no one cares that she’s Clarke Griffin anymore. Everyone else is playing darts or shooting pool, and it’s just the two of them, and he’s maybe thirty seconds from kissing her if they don’t have a conversation about it.

She stiffens instantly. “Do what?”

“I can’t–I don’t even know how long your contract is. I can’t do this if I’m just going to lose you again. I–”

“Oh,” she says, and it’s so soft his heart half breaks already. But then, miracle of miracles, she turns into him, her nose nuzzling into his neck, making him shiver. “I like this. I’m not–Hollywood wasn’t working for me. That’s not what I want. It was–I’m glad I did it. But I want to stay here. With you.”

“With me,” he repeats. His arm tightens around her without his even quite realizing it.

“Yeah. I can’t lose you again either.”

“And when the show ends?” he can’t help asking. He can’t hear it enough.

“One of us has to get cast in _Hamilton_ eventually, right?” She pauses. “Probably you. It’s not a show for white actresses. But I’ll find something else. _Sound of Music_ revival. Whatever.”

“Please don’t do a _Sound of Music_ revival.” He tilts her chin up, and she comes eagerly. He hasn’t kissed her in _four years_. It’s been way too long, but it’s the same as ever, the way her mouth melts into his, the way she can’t help taking control, she’s so eager.

It’s everything he was afraid of letting himself want.

“Please don’t leave,” he says.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to.”

*

“I still hate these,” says Clarke, tugging on her dress.

“How am I better at fancy parties than you are?”

“You’re a better actor.”

“That must be it.”

Marcus Kane finds them first, gives Clarke a hug and Bellamy a smile and a firm handshake. “Nice to see you again, son.”

“You too.”

“How’s the new show, Clarke?”

“Exhausting. But good. It’s a great part.”

“Glad to hear it.” His smile turns sheepish. “Bellamy, I’m sure you get this all the time, but–”

“Even when you’re in the show, tickets are tricky,” he says. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Clarke laughs and leans against him, and he guesses he _is_ getting pretty good at charity parties.

These days, all the conversations are easy.


	42. Fleek Instagram Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [feministbatlord](http://feministbatlord.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: bellarke + 'I originally followed you on Instagram bc you’re hot and I’m thirsty but now I’ve developed actual feelings for you bc you’re a genuinely good person’

Clarke’s original reasons for following Octavia’s brother were far from pure, but she thinks it would be hard for anyone to figure that out. After all, she found out about his Instagram because Octavia posted a picture of the two of them with the caption: _Finally got my dork brother on Instagram (and in Boston!!), everyone follow @theblakemistake_.

If anyone asked, she was just following orders. It was not at all that he was really, really hot. No one could prove otherwise.

Especially when she _keeps_ following him through the rocky first weeks of his Instagramming. Given how Bellamy Blake looked–broad shoulders, tan skin, toothpaste-commercial smile, artfully mussed hair, topped off with a pair of black hipster frames and a generous sprinkling of freckles–she assumed Octavia’s descriptor of “my dork brother” was just a little sister teasing.

But Bellamy’s inaugural Instagram post is a picture of a plant Clarke can’t identify with a truly dorky caption:

> _Things @octaviathefirst (am I doing that right) made me get today:_
> 
> _1\. Instagram account  
>  2\. Plant_
> 
> _I figure I might as well use the first to monitor the second and see which one dies first._

And then he actually _lists information about the plant_. Like how many leaves it has and its color and the dampness of the soil. It is not at all what Clarke was expecting, but she finds herself actually kind of looking forward to his daily plant updates. His captions are fun, and he is really worried about his ability to keep the thing alive, which is really endearing.

After a week and a half of that, he finally posts another picture of himself, wearing pajamas and holding an orange kitten. Which is _exactly_ the content Clarke was looking for. That’s what she’s about.

> _So, it’s come to my attention (s/o to @octaviathefirst) that I’m “doing it wrong” and just posting pictures of my plant is “boring and sad.” So I guess people on Instagram like cats? That’s what I’m getting. Anyway, this is Hermes, he’s an asshole._
> 
> _PS: I’m still doing the plant updates._

Clarke feels like she’s gotten in on the ground floor of what should be the next big thing. Bellamy is twenty-nine, a high-school history teacher who likes used books, cats, and obscure facts about the Roman Empire. It feels like he should be blowing up Instagram, because how could he _not_ be, but his follower count remains modest, so Clarke remains guilty for being one of them. It’s not weird, following a popular person you’ve never met on Instagram, but following your friend’s girlfriend’s brother who posts absolutely nothing extraordinary feels very creepy.

Especially the longer it goes, because she doesn’t even look forward to the pictures of him most. She likes those, of course. He is still hot. Like–beyond hot. But he’s not _just_ hot. He’s started this weird narrative in his plant posts about what it’s thinking and how he isn’t meeting its needs. He takes screencaps of Pokemon he’s found in weird places on Pokemon Go and offers theories as to how and why they got there. He posts a lot of pictures of his cat yowling next to broken objects, a series he calls “Hermes is a dick.” He’s up to Exhibit R in that one, which is the cat frozen in guilt as he bites the book Bellamy is reading.

Clarke is honestly expecting him to go viral any day.

He followed her back around when she followed him, which made her feel only a little weird at the time. Octavia probably told him who she was, or he saw her pictures with Lincoln and figured it out himself. Clarke is semi-popular on Instagram as an aesthetic photographer, and she mostly posts what she thinks of as hipster shots: her Starbucks orders, clouds, city- and landscapes. For her, Instagram is primarily a branding tool for her own work, and people do hire her as a photographer based on it, but–she feels weird that that’s all Bellamy knows about her. It’s not really inaccurate, but–it doesn’t feel like _her_.

He doesn’t even like her cute selfies. Not that she’s checking, or anything. But he doesn’t.

It shouldn’t bother her, but it does. Bellamy’s been on Instagram–and in Boston, successfully not killing his plant–for three months. It’s October, which means he’s updating less now that the school year has begun, and Clarke finds, absurdly, that she _misses_ him.

It’s so stupid, having a crush on him. She hasn’t even _met_ him. They had a near miss at the end of September, when she was out for drinks with Lincoln and Octavia and Octavia said, casual, “I think Bell’s coming,” and Clarke spent the next half an hour jumping at every sound, on high alert for any sign of him.

Then Octavia’s phone buzzed, and she huffed and said, “He’s canceling, of course. My brother,” she added, to Clarke, and Clarke felt absurdly guilty. “He’s a high-school teacher, he says he’s too busy to come out, like, all the time, but I’m pretty sure he’s just anti-social.”

It seemed safer to just say it, in case it came up later. “Yeah, I know. I follow him on Instagram.”

Octavia snorted. “Congratulations on putting up with that.”

She didn’t respond, of course; he’s her favorite thing on Instagram. And she really, really wants to know what he’s really _like_. What his voice sounds like, how his hands move in person. She wants to know if he speaks like he writes, if his smile is as bright as it looks.

She has it _bad_. It’s ridiculous.

And today she’s finally– _finally_ –going to meet him. Probably. Assuming he doesn’t bail.

Clarke spends way too long finding an outfit and takes a selfie for Instagram before she leaves. Or, well, more accurately, she takes five selfies and picks the cutest one, her in her favorite knit hat and a cute vintage coat, grinning at the camera. She posts it, adds the caption, _Apparently going apple picking, because it’s the 1950s and I am a Wholesome Bisexual_ , and tags Lincoln, Octavia, Raven, Monty, and, in a fit of wild optimism, Bellamy.

When she checks Instagram on the train, he’s not only liked the picture, but tagged her in his own picture, one of him and an unimpressed dude in a beanie holding up Hermes like he’s afraid the cat will rip him to shreds while Bellamy winces at the camera. _Apparently we’re doing apple-picking selfies? Bitter Gay and Generally Confused Pansexual, checking in with Asshole Cat._

Her smile is probably creepily huge, but–he’s definitely going to be there. He’s possibly bringing his boyfriend, which would suck, but–she doesn’t _think_ he has a boyfriend. He can have a platonic bitter gay friend. Clarke has like five.

Octavia greets her with, “I can’t believe you got Bell to actually confirm he’s coming! I have actual photographic proof he’s dressed and ready to go. If he doesn’t show up, I can yell at him instead of being supportive because school is kicking his ass.”

“Happy to help. I wasn’t even trying.”

“If he was with anyone but Miller, I’d assume that was enough, but Miller’s even less social than he is, so that’s useless. They’re great at enabling each other to not go to shit.”

“Miller’s his boyfriend?” Clarke asks. Lincoln gives her a contemplative look, but Octavia doesn’t seem to notice, so she figures she’s safe.

“No, his best friend. They were roommates in college, that’s like half of how I convinced Bell to relocate after he finished grad school.”

“The other half being you?”

Octavia grins. “He is like the most overprotective person ever. It’s pathetic. It’s like he has no life of his own, nothing to do but–”

Clarke figures it out pretty quickly, but she doesn’t let herself turn around, so she hears him before she sees him. “You’re doing a great job making me feel like I made the right choice moving here, O,” he says. His voice is deep and a little rough, wryly amused, and Clarke doesn’t shiver. It takes some effort. “You can’t even wait five minutes to let me make a shitty first impression on my own?”

“She follows you on Instagram, Bell, she’s got to know you’re a giant weirdo already.”

“True.”

She lets herself turn and look at him. She already knew what he was wearing–maroon sweater, gray scarf, glasses–and what he looked like, but it’s still a lot to take in. She knew about how tall he must be, from pictures with Octavia, but he looks bigger in person, broad-shouldered and solid, and she doesn’t think she realized he had _that_ many freckles.

“Hi,” she manages. “You must be Bellamy.”

“And you’re Clarke, right?” he says, offering his hand. “The artist.”

She feels her own mouth twitch into a smile. “Graphic designer, usually. But I appreciate the extra credit.”

He shrugs. “Your Instagram game is way ahead of mine, so I’m just calling it like I see it.” He glances at Octavia. “That’s what the kids are calling it, right? _Instagram game_?”

“Don’t you work with teenagers?” she huffs. “Why are you so bad at slang?”

“I’m pretty sure they’re lying to fuck with me. I don’t believe that _fleek_ is a thing. That has to be made up.”

Oh fuck, he’s _adorable_. He’s exactly like she thought he’d be. It’s the worst.

Monty and Raven show up before anyone can tell Bellamy that fleek is real, and they do general introductions and figure out how to divide themselves into two cars for the trip.

Somehow, Bellamy’s friend Miller ends up in Raven’s car with Monty, and Bellamy ends up in Lincoln’s car. In the back seat.

With her.

She’s still not entirely sure how.

Lincoln and Octavia are bickering about directions, which Bellamy apparently has as much interest in getting involved in that as she does, because he turns his attention to her and asks, low, “So, graphic designer?”

“Yeah. Photographer on the side, but I mostly do in-house graphics and for a marketing firm. Which is cool, don’t get me wrong, but–there’s not a lot of exciting stuff to do with it. They just want basic corporate stuff.”

“Yeah, I get that.” He clears his throat. “I, uh–I like your pictures. I don’t really know what the Instagram etiquette for that is.”

She has to smile. “The like button.”

“Oh, is that what that’s for?” He ducks his head on a shy smile, and Clarke is transfixed. He’s _so_ pretty. “I appreciated the pity-follow, I didn’t want to scare you off.”

“Trust me, if your plant series didn’t do it, liking my pictures wouldn’t,” she says, without thinking.

But his smile widens at that, gets more confident. “Yeah, O says I’m doing it wrong, but I’m pretty sure that thing would have died if I didn’t have a reason to check it every day.”

“How is it easier to keep a cat alive than a plant?”

“Are you kidding? If I don’t feed the cat, he bites me and doesn’t shut up. If I don’t water the plant, it just silently dies.”

“So you can keep things alive as long as they scream at you. That’s what I’m getting.”

“I did raise Octavia,” he says, and she calls, “Shut up, Bell!” without missing a beat.

His smile is a little sheepish when he looks back at her. “I’m glad someone’s enjoying the plant updates, anyway.”

“Yeah,” she agrees. “Don’t stop.”

It makes absolutely nothing better, meeting him. He starts liking her photos, and starts mentioning in his tags, casual, when he thinks she’ll like or be particularly interested in something.

And he starts posting more selfies. Which is just–god, so unfair. _And_ he starts making time to socialize, and his friend Miller starts dating Monty, and it’s just overwhelming amounts of Bellamy Blake. She just followed him because she wanted periodic doses of eye-candy. She wasn’t supposed to fall for him.

At Thanksgiving, she gets drunk and tells him as much.

“What?” he asks.

“You’re just supposed to be hot. Like–one of those guys who posts shirtless workout pictures to Instagram to brag about your muscles. That was what I was expecting.”

“Is that really a thing? I’m following the wrong Instagrams.”

“And then you were–great. Painfully hot was bad enough, but painfully hot dorky history teacher is just–how am I supposed to deal with that? It’s undealable.”

“You need to have water and sleep here,” he tells her, after a pause. “You’re way too drunk.”

“I really am,” she says, and falls asleep on him.

He’s gone when she wakes up, and she’s so mortified she nearly unfollows him on Instagram, on the grounds that throwing herself into the Charles would be just the tiniest bit over-dramatic.

But then he texts her a picture of himself, shirtless, poking a dumbbell like he thinks it’s going to bite him. Given how _fucking ripped_ he is, he can’t actually be afraid of workout equipment.

_I’m not really into Instagram exhibitionism_ , he says, once she tears her eyes away from the picture to actually read the accompanying messages, _but if you want shirtless pics, all you have to do is ask._ Apparently, he’s still typing, and she waits for the second message– _Unless you were just drunk, in which case pretend this never happened_ –to come through before she saves the picture and responds.

_No, no. Please send shirtless pictures. That would be fleek_.

_I don’t even think that’s a word and I know that’s not how you use it._ Another pause and then, _How about dinner? Is dinner fleek?_

She can’t stop grinning. _Dinner would be the fleekest_.

And, okay, she might be a little biased, but she has to say, if there’s one thing that really improves his already stellar Instagram feeds, it’s the occasional pictures of her, tagged with things like, _why can my girlfriend fall asleep on every horizontal surface that exists_ and _Exhibit AB: Hermes tries to eat Clarke’s scarf_.

Seriously, best Instagram ever.


	43. Oh How Happy We'll Be Timestamp: Sunrise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [guessineedaurl](http://guessineedaurl.tumblr.com/)! Original fic [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7484889).

The second time Bellamy goes to the beach, it’s almost nothing like the first.

Well, okay, it’s similar in a lot of ways. He’s going to the same beach and the same house, and he’s going with Clarke. But it doesn’t _feel_ the same. It’s only been three months since that first visit, but his entire life has been upended in that time.

It’s not just Clarke; it might not even primarily be Clarke. Not that she isn’t a huge, amazing, wonderful change. She’s up there in the best things that have ever happened to him, he’s pretty sure, which feels weird to think about. Most of his positive life events have been humans, but it feels odd to think about them in those terms. Octavia’s birth is the most important thing that’s ever happened to him, but she’s a person, not a plot point.

It’s something he’s reminded himself of a lot, in the last three months. Just because Octavia feels like the fulcrum on which his existence turns, it doesn’t mean she is, or that she should be. She doesn’t owe him that. And–she’s going to be happy.

That’s all he’s ever wanted for her. But it’s still a change, and a huge one.

One he’s not confident he would have gotten through without Clarke. Not in a bad way; he hasn’t been leaning on her, he doesn’t think. Mostly, it just gives him something to do aside from from fret about how she’s doing. He has a new girlfriend to focus on, and that’s great.

It’s her idea to go back to the beach. It’s not for long, just for the long weekend at Labor Day. He’s between summer and fall semesters and has spent the rest of his break stressing out about how to redo all of his lesson plans based on his experiences in the summer term. Which wouldn’t be bad, except he’s done it about a thousand times, and if he does it any more, he’s probably going to give himself an aneurysm.

Clarke suggested the beach, and found flights cheap enough that even he didn’t mind flying instead of driving. When you’re only going for a weekend, driving for fifteen hours just doesn’t work, honestly.

And there’s something weirdly exciting about flying with Clarke. About taking a trip with _her_ , just her.

So, yeah. Watching Clarke unlock the beach house, it feels completely different.

It feels like exactly what it is: his first ever vacation with his girlfriend.

“Wow,” says Clarke, surprising him.

“This is your house,” he teases. “Why are you impressed?”

She rolls her eyes at him. “It’s just–it feels a lot bigger when it’s just the two of us.”

“I’m trying to figure out how to turn that into a joke about my dick, but I’m coming up short.”

“Just like your dick,” she says, easy. “But seriously, it’s–when I was a kid I didn’t notice, and this summer I was thinking about how many people were going to show up. But we’ve got so much space.”

“Think about all the places we can have sex,” he says, and that does make her laugh. “Are you upset? I can’t tell.”

“Standard rich white-girl guilt,” she says.

“You know what would fix that?”

“Giving a bunch of my money to charity and telling my mom I think she’s corrupt?”

He snorts. “I meant something _special_.”

“So it’s not sex either.”

“I was thinking the beach.”

As expected, that distracts her. Clarke takes a personal pride in his affection for the ocean which he finds adorable, so it really is a win/win. Clarke’s happy, and he gets to go to the beach.

Someday, he assumes they’ll come here in peak season, when the sun is beating down and the water’s at its warmest, but he kind of likes slightly off-season. Labor Day seems to basically be the last hurrah of summer down here, and there definitely _are_ people, but he assumes not as many as in July and August.

It’s admittedly a little weird, feeling so sure that this beach, this house, is such a definite part of his future, but–he’s pretty sure it’s going well. Like, really well. If anyone had ever asked, he would have said he assumed he’d be a lousy boyfriend, just because he doesn’t feel like he’s ever had time to prioritize romance.

He still doesn’t, not really, but Clarke likes lowkey. She comes over and hangs out while he grades and works on lesson plans, happy to just be in the same place without needing what he thinks of as _relationship shit_.

So it’s possible he’s just bad at what he assumed dating would look like in high school, going to movies and out to dinner, buying teddy bears holding hearts.

He’s good at loving Clarke, and being there for her. That’s so easy.

Much as he likes the ocean, he never wants to swim for much more than an hour. There’s only so much floating and bodysurfing he can do before he gets concerned about the pruning of his skin and whether or not he’s missed any important emails. It’s another thing he’d feel bad about, if Clarke wasn’t the same way. Neither of them likes being out of contact. It makes them itchy.

“You think I could date someone else?” he asks, without really meaning to.

Luckily, she looks amused. “That’s a really weird way to break up with me.”

“It was supposed to be the opposite. Like, shit, I better never break up with you, because no one else would put up with me.”

She laughs, but then she seems to realize he’s serious, because she gapes at him. “Wait, are you serious? You think you’re hard to date?”

“Not for _you_ ,” he says. “But for someone who wanted–”

“You’re a great boyfriend. You’re the best boyfriend I’ve ever had.”

“My adult sister is halfway across the world and I get anxious when I’m away from the phone because she might have had an emergency.”

“Being away from your phone isn’t really something I need from a boyfriend.” She steps closer, slides her hand into his. “What’s this actually about?”

“We’re on vacation and I’m still stressed.”

“So am I. You’re not checking your lesson plans, right?”

“No.”

“You didn’t even bring any work.”

“No.”

“I love how much you care. About everything. Even when I didn’t like you, I kind of liked that. Except when you were wrong, obviously.”

He snorts. “Obviously.”

“I just don’t get how we went from happy beach to _no one else will ever love me_. Not that I’m planning on you getting another girlfriend, but I’m pretty sure you could. If we broke up.”

“We could have stayed at the beach longer.”

“I didn’t want to either.” She huffs and tugs him in for a kiss. “I love you, but you’re honestly coming up with things to stress out about at this point.”

“I feel like a lot of our relationship is us on the couch, not doing much.”

“Yeah. That’s kind of normal. I guess we got there quicker than most people, but–we do other stuff. You cook me dinner. You text me when you know I’m having a stressful day. I don’t care about–going out to bars and exploring new places. I like that stuff too, but we do it enough for me.” She looks away. “You know what I like?”

“Some of it.”

“If I have a bad day, you tell me to come over. Always. And I can just curl up next to you, and you make me feel better. You act like you’re a bad boyfriend because you work a lot, but you’re always there when I need you. Always. That’s what I want.”

“Oh.”

“And I hope that’s what you want too,” she adds, almost shy.

“Fuck,” he says. “Yeah, of course, that’s–” He laughs. “Yeah. You’re perfect for me.”

“That’s what I thought. And that’s exactly how I feel about you, so stop worrying. Now get in the shower. I bought new puzzles I want to work on.”

And that’s how it goes. They have absolutely no plans and no responsibilities, just three whole days of relaxing. And they’re _terrible_ at it. Or, not _terrible_. They go swimming and watch Netflix and do puzzles and have a ton of sex. But Bellamy still talks through his worries about his classes next semester, and Clarke fields calls from her mother and frets about her work projects.

They maybe aren’t people who are capable of disconnecting. But they don’t have to be.

The last night, Clarke says, “Okay, here’s something exciting I want to do.”

“Matching tattoos?”

“I want to sleep on the roof. My dad never let me. I still don’t get why, he was really laid back and it’s totally safe. But he was convinced a storm would hit and kill me.”

“Now that you mention it, sounds risky,” he teases. “Better not.”

She elbows him. “Come on, it’ll be fun. We have good memories on that roof.”

“We do,” he agrees, and kisses her temple. “I’m in, obviously.”

The roof is small and windy and not actually great for sleeping. Clarke finds a couple sleeping bags in the closet and zips them together for a mattress, and they grab sheets so they can layer them according to the changing temperatures. Clarke curls into his chest, staring up at the stars, and he looks too, even though they’re just blurs without his glasses.

“This is going to be terrible for our backs,” she remarks.

“Yeah.”

“And cold.”

“And uncomfortable. Sorry, did you want to go in? We can go in.”

“No, I want to do it. Just–see? You do stuff for me.”

“This is incredibly low effort.”

“You’d do other stuff if I wanted.”

It’s true, he would. He’d do basically anything for her, but he doesn’t have to, and that’s what he’s not used to. He had to nearly tear himself in two for Octavia, and for Clarke, he just–

He just has to be himself.

“Yeah. But you don’t want anything big.”

“Nope. Just this.”

He closes his eyes. It’s not like the view was doing much for him, anyway. “This I can do.”

The first sight of the sun wakes him, as if by magic, because it’s not like it’s _bright_. But he stirs right as the sky is turning red and gold over the ocean, and he shakes Clarke awake without thinking, shoving his glasses on while he’s at it.

“What?” she grumbles.

“Sunrise.”

“It’s _early_.”

“Yeah, that’s how sunrise works.”

She drags herself up, tucking herself against his side. “Were you waiting for this?”

“No, I just woke up.”

“And you woke me up too.”

“I wanted to do this with you,” he says. “It didn’t seem like a lot to ask.”

She kisses his shoulder. “No, not too much.” And then, “This is nice. We should do it more often.”

“Sleeping on the roof or coming here?”

“Both. The house isn’t going anywhere.” He sees her worrying her lip out of the corner of his eye. “This is a nice thing. For Labor Day. We could do it next year.”

It sounds like a promise. “We’re going to get up to watch the sunrise too. At least once.”

“I guess I could live with that,” she says, as if it’s some huge burden. “After all, you’re pretty good to me.”


	44. Three, Two, One, Now Fall In My Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [ardourr](http://ardourr.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: 'the first time' (2012) movie AU for bellarke

When Bellamy meets Clarke, he’s rehearsing a love confession for another girl. Which is not, he knows, the most auspicious start. Especially because the first thing she does is critique him on it.

“It sounds like you’re trying to win a debate,” she says.

He’s been pacing, muttering under his breath, repeating words until he won’t trip over them.

Of course, at the sound of her voice, he trips on his _feet_ , stumbles and jerks up to glare at her.

She’s sitting on Jasper’s back steps with a red solo cup, regarding him evenly. Her bright blonde hair tumbles over her shoulders and her t-shirt is sliding down, showing the bright blue band of her bra strap.

She raises her glass in greeting. “Sorry, maybe that’s the vibe you were going for.”

“Winning a debate?”

“ _We’ve known each other for so long, our friends get along, we have similar interests_ ,” she says, waving her hand. They aren’t his exact words, but they’re his sentiments. “You’re lining up a list of arguments why she should date you.”

“And?”

“And feelings aren’t logical. If she doesn’t like you, she’s going to say no. So your line is basically, _I like you, want to go out with me_.” She smirks. “Not to be too middle-school about it, but it’s hard to actually beat the practical simplicity of _do you like me y/n_.”

He snorts and gives in to temptation, going to sit next to her on the stairs. Pacing isn’t improving his life. “You think that would work?”

“She might think it’s cute.” She pauses. “Sorry, I’m assuming pronouns. Girl?”

“Girl,” he confirms. “I think my best shot is pity, so maybe a sad note would work.”

“Why is your best shot pity?” she asks, sounding genuinely curious. “You’re attractive. Nice arms, good hair. Great ass. I feel like you could make it on straight lust.”

He cranes around, like he’ll be able to see himself if he tries hard enough. “Great ass, really?”

She huffs out a laugh of her own. “Focus, uh–”

“Bellamy.”

“Focus, Bellamy.”

“Like I said, I’ve known her for years. And I only got muscle tone recently.”

“Congrats. I bet she noticed.” She pauses, fiddling with her cup, and then asks, “Do you like her?”

“What?”

“I’m just saying, this isn’t really what I do when I like people. Stand outside, rehearsing an awkward speech.”

“I’m open to suggestions. What should I be doing instead? Teach me your ways.” He pauses. “Actually, name and relationship status. Give me some credentials here. I don’t just take relationship advice from random girls.”

“Really? Because I would, if I were you.”

“Okay,” he says, with a smile. “I’ll take all the help I can get. But still.”

“Clarke,” she says, offering her hand. “I went out with my best friend for about a week in ninth grade, and then we realized it was terrible. Had a boyfriend for the last semester of sophomore year and into the summer, when I found out he had another girlfriend. Figured out I was bisexual, had a girlfriend junior year, and now I have a new girlfriend.”

“Wow.”

“What?” she asks, defensive, and he laughs.

“No, just–that’s actually a really compelling resume. I should definitely listen to you. How do you do it?”

“Talk to them until they make a move.”

“And just like that, you’re not helpful again. We talk all the time. She hasn’t made a move.”

“Okay, but–has she given signals?”

“Signals?”

Clarke scoots a little closer, so their shoulders are brushing. It’s the beginning of the school year, not chilly yet, but with a hint of fall in the air, and she’s warm and smells a little like coconut.

And she has a girlfriend.

“Stuff like this,” she says, bumping her shoulder against his. “Leaning in, touching your arm, smiling. Strategic cleavage displays.”

It’s impossible to _not_ look down at that, and he has no idea if she’s doing something special, but–wow.

He pulls his eyes back up before he grosses her out, but she’s smiling a little. “Uh, I never noticed, I guess.”

“So, what do you like about this girl?” she asks.

“I feel like you’re not buying my crush.”

“Sorry,” she says, without remorse. “Just–I don’t know. Some people don’t like being single.”

He groans and flops back. “Yeah, you’re right. That’s honestly–that’s not _it_.”

“But?” she prompts.

“But I’ve never had time to date anyone. In my life. I mean, if I’d been interested in dating before age six, I could have, but that was the last time I could have.”

“What happened when you were six?”

“My sister was born, and my mom told me it was my job to take care of her.” He runs his hand through his hair. “God, that sounds shitty. It wasn’t–it was a bad situation, and she was working all the time to take care of us. So I took care of O.”

“What changed?”

He huffs. “My mom died last year, and we got put in foster care. We’re in a good home, and she’s eleven, which is pretty independent, so–now I have all this time.”

“And you want a girlfriend.”

“I like Gina,” he says. “But–I’ve never really done the whole–I don’t know.” He clears his throat. “I don’t think I’m ace or aro or whatever, I’d like to date someone and–” He flushes, doesn’t add anything about sex. “But I think I turned off the part of my brain that cared about that stuff. I didn’t have time, so it was easier to just–not. And now I don’t know how.”

It feels like it would be a better argument if he wasn’t so aware of _her_. Maybe his brain is just broken. Because he really _does_ like Gina. But she wasn’t wrong about his arguments. He feels like he’s better at logic than emotion. And, logically, Gina is a good choice.

Clarke’s apparently thinking the same thing, because she says, “Yeah, I can see why you were having trouble with your speech.” She pats his arm. “Look, as a basically totally unbiased stranger? I wouldn’t do the speech. You’re not broken. There’s no rush. Wait for someone who makes you feel it.”

“Wow,” he says, making it sarcastic. “You’re so wise.”

“I am.”

He pauses, but then he can’t help asking, “If you’re so wise, what were you doing out here in the first place? Where’s your girlfriend?”

“Inside.” She worries her lip. “I’m good at getting into relationships, not staying with them.”

“Oh. You want to talk about that?”

She stretches her legs out, looking up at the sky. “I might have been speaking from personal experience. About the debate thing. She–it was really easy to get caught up. And our relationship is great on paper. We have so much in common. It’s all really–logical. And it’s not like–it’s not _bad_. But we come to things like this, and sometimes I feel more like a trophy than a girlfriend.”

“That sucks,” he says. “So, really what you’re doing is trying to save Gina from that.”

“I have a lot of value as a cautionary tale.”

“I think I’d be a good boyfriend,” he admits. “Even if my intentions aren’t totally–right.”

“I think you probably would be. But that doesn’t mean you should do it.” She smiles. “You’re going to find someone good for you, Bellamy. So–just wait for her.”

“Or him,” he says. “I’m not picky.”

That makes her smile. “Or him. But–yeah. I think you can do better.”

“Thanks for the–does this count as a pep talk? I don’t feel peppier.”

She laughs at that, and it’s a beautiful sound. “I was thinking of it as more _come to Jesus_. That’s my specialty.”

“Well, thanks for that.” He worries his lip. “Nice to meet you, Clarke.”

“You too. See you around, Bellamy.”

He doesn’t think it will really happen–it feels like one strange, enlightening night, the kind of connection that just happens and then disappears, something like getting struck by lightning, but in a nice way.

That was how it was supposed to feel. That’s what he should be looking for. Not with _her_ , obviously, because even if she’s not sure about her girlfriend, she’s still taken. But–someone like her. Something like that.

But somehow, he sees her the next night, because once he’s noticed her, he can’t _not_. She’s at the private school, not the public one, but her friend Monty is apparently dating his best friend Miller, so they must have been at some of the same events before. That couldn’t be the first time.

The two of them end up playing beer pong versus Gina and Raven and annihilating them so hard they aren’t allowed to play the next round, and they end up outside again, leaning against the railing of the balcony. Bellamy barely even knows who’s hosting this party, but they have a really nice house.

“Was one of those her?” Clarke asks.

“Yeah, Gina.”

She nods. “She’s pretty. I think she’s into Raven, though.”

It hadn’t ever occurred to him. “Yeah?”

“Or she should be. They were cute.” She bumps her shoulder against his. “I’m not rooting for you, sorry.”

“Story of my life.” He takes a sip of beer. “Where’s your girlfriend?”

“Downstairs with the rest of the soccer team.”

“Still feel like a trophy?”

She rolls her eyes. “No, my relationship magically fixed itself in the last twenty-four hours.”

“You fixed mine. Want me to try to return the favor?”

“Are you going to tell me to break up with her?”

“Not exactly. But–I think you gave me that lecture because you want to feel it too. The–romance, or whatever you want to call it.”

“You sure have a way with words.”

“I try.” He nudges her. “I’m just saying, if I told a total stranger that he shouldn’t date someone because it reminded me of how I got together with my girlfriend, I’d see it as a sign I maybe shouldn’t be dating the girlfriend.”

“Yeah.” She pauses. “It _was_ good. For a while.”

“I believe you. But I feel like it’s time to stop, once it stops being good.”

“Wow. As soon as it gets bad, just cut loose?” she teases.

“Exactly. Never work for anything,” he agrees, and she laughs. “I think the question is, is it good enough you want to work for it?”

“That’s the question, yeah.” She sighs. “I don’t know. It’s not really _bad_. It’s just–it’s easy. But not in the good way. Not, like–”

“It’s not worth it,” he supplies. “It’s doesn’t have to be bad to not be good.”

She exhales. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Apparently we’re really good at talking each other out of being in relationships.”

That makes her laugh. “Apparently.” For a second, he thinks she’s going to kiss him, from the way she’s watching him with her bottom lip caught in her teeth, but finally she just nods. “I’m going to go talk to her.”

“Are you breaking up with your girlfriend at a party?”

“I’ll see how it goes. But–really, thanks. I needed this.”

“Any time,” he says, and she presses a kiss to his cheek before she goes.

That’s definitely got to be it. The last time he sees her.

Except–he doesn’t want it to be. He doesn’t want this to be the end of whatever weird friendship they’ve got going. He _likes_ her. He wants to see more of her.

He gets her number from Monty on Tuesday, but makes himself wait until Thursday to text. Just so he’s not _too_ weird.

**Me** : Hey, it’s Bellamy  
I had Miller ask his boyfriend for your number  
So however creepy you find that, that’s how creeped out you should be

**Clarke** : Thanks for that context  
That’s really not that creepy

**Me** : Cool, glad to hear it  
Did you break up with your girlfriend?

**Clarke** : Yeah  
It was definitely the right call  
Thanks

**Me** : Happy to help  
So  
Do you like me, y/n

**Clarke** : Y

**Me** : Cool  
I was hoping

**Clarke** : Yeah  
Me too


	45. So Happy Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [kingedmundactually](http://kingedmundactually.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: Could you write Bellarke AU where they hate each other but get stuck in a delayed airplane/airport layover together during the Christmas holidays?

It’s not like Clarke was that excited to go home, but, honestly, stuck in the airport on a layover is absolutely the _worst_ way to not go home. She doesn’t like airports at the best of times, but it’s even worse when she’s stuck with no idea when she’s getting out.

With Bellamy Blake. Just to top it all off.

She knew he was on her flight; they spotted each other in the waiting area. He raised his hand in greeting, she returned the gesture, and she was quietly aware of him until the seat next to her opened up, and he took it.

“What?” she asked.

“I want to hit the bathroom and grab some Starbucks before we board,” he said. “If you watch my stuff, I’ll buy you something.”

She hates Bellamy, but Starbucks sounded good. And she wanted to go to the bathroom too.

“Venti dark roast,” she said. “Thanks.”

“Don’t let anyone steal my shit.”

He’d gotten her the coffee, she’d hit the bathroom, and they’d sat together in silence for the twenty more minutes they had before boarding. It wasn’t bad, but she was just as glad to get on the plane and away from him. Even if her actual seatmate wasn’t an improvement, since he insisted on hogging the armrest and tried talking to her even though she had her headphones in. Bellamy may be an ass, but at least he knows how to keep his mouth shut and mind his own business.

She’d say that’s why she goes to find him when she finds out about the layover, but really she just wants _someone_ to complain to, and Raven and Wells aren’t responding to her texts.

“Did you get delayed?” she asks.

He’s texting too, but he glances up, frowning. “Yeah. At least I’m not canceled. You?”

“Delayed too.”

“How long?”

“They’re saying two hours. So–I’ve got three hours to kill.”

“Yeah, I’ve got something like that. How late are you getting in?”

“I’m going to California, so–late for me, not as late for my mom. You?”

“Illinois. So–late.”

“Sorry.”

He shrugs. “Like I said, at least it’s not canceled. I can get an uber or something. Hitchhike. Whatever.”

It’s weird, realizing she doesn’t know anything about him. Not really. They’ve been in classes together since freshman year, one a semester, like _magic_. She honestly doesn’t know how it keeps happening. They’re in different majors–art and history–and hate each other, so it’s incomprehensible to her that they keep thinking the same things seem interesting, from philosophy to English to political science.

The first class was history, and they disagreed about everything. And it was easy to just keep on hating him, even over the next four classes, when she started realizing he had a decent perspective, when she’d gotten a little less sheltered and he’d gotten a little less combative.

But he’s still a dick. No question.

“No ride?”

“My sister was going to get me,” he says. “But Mom works nights, and she’ll have the car by the time I get in. So, yeah. Taxi. You?”

“My mom will get me, or send someone else to get me,”

He smiles with half his mouth. “Right, rich girl.”

She shrugs. “No denying it, right?”

“Yeah, well.” He clears his throat. “You got a lot better about it.”

“It’s kind of weird. I didn’t really think private college would be that different from private high school, but you’re right. Apparently it’s easier for low-income students to get into good colleges with competitive financial aid than high schools like mine.”

His mouth quirks into half a smile. “Wow. I had no idea. I’ve never screamed that at you in a class.”

“An _English_ class, even.” She has to laugh. “How did we even get there?”

“You were wrong about something.”

“That must have been it.”

They’ve got _hours_ to kill, and if she’s alone, she has to drag her stuff with her everywhere she goes. If she has a buddy, they can find a good place to sit and move in shifts.

“Are you hungry?” she asks.

“I bought your Starbucks,” he says, without missing a beat. “That means you’re buying me dinner.”

“It’s three in the afternoon.”

“Yeah, but if you’re paying, I’m going to get a lot.”

She can’t help a small laugh at that, in spite of herself. “Yeah, okay. Fair enough. Where are we going?”

She turned twenty-one in November, and Bellamy’s apparently almost twenty-two, which she didn’t know. He explains that he took a year off to help take care of his sister after high school, when his mom was in the hospital.

“But she got better?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “It’s cancer. She’s in remission. It’s–the doctor isn’t worried about it right now. And she’s got a job and decent insurance, sort of.” He waves his hand. “I think she’ll make it until I’m done with college, at least.”

Thankfully, that’s when the alcohol they ordered shows up; Clarke’s not sure she could deal with finding out about Bellamy’s tragic backstory without some wine.

Maybe she should order another now. So it’ll be ready for her.

“How old is she?” she asks. “Your sister.”

“Seventeen. She’s a handful. I honestly don’t know how my mom’s going to deal with her for another year, but–I’m giving myself college.”

“Giving yourself college?”

“I’m the first one in my family to go. I worked my ass off for it.” He clears his throat, looking awkward. “I feel like a fucking asshole being there, most of the time. I got in before my mom’s diagnosis, the financial aid was great, and–honestly I was looking forward to getting out of town. Just being on my own.”

“And then she got the diagnosis.”

“And then she got the diagnosis.”

She considers. “Well, if it helps, you’re definitely an asshole all the time,” she says, and he laughs aloud in surprise. “But this story makes me think you’re slightly less of an asshole, so if you could stop, that would be great. I don’t like having to think of you as a real person.”

“Oh, shit, my bad. Yeah, I have no depth or backstory. I’m just that random douchebag who tells you you’re wrong all the time.”

He’s smiling, so she smiles too. “I think at this point, you’re a _specific_ douchebag. Lead douchebag.”

“It’s the role I was born to play.” He takes a sip of his beer. “What about you? Not to be that creepy guy who was–” Apparently whatever he was going to say is too creepy, because he clears his throat and looks away. “You missed a week of class last semester, and I felt like you came back kind of–I was worried, but I thought it would be weird to ask. And you were kind of different after.”

She gets why he felt weird, but–it’s kind of nice that he noticed. The thing about Bellamy is that they aren’t _friends_. They don’t even sit near each other in class. They argue all the time, and they hate each other, officially. They’re on the record as hating each other.

But the one time he missed class, she fretted for two days, until he was back in the next one, with a cough that suggested he was getting over a cold.

“My dad died,” she says. “And my mom and I–it was hard for us. Obviously it was hard,” she adds, quickly. “But–she threw herself into work and I threw myself into school and I guess neither of us realized how much we used him as a mediator. To relate to each other. And she was also–it was a mess. It made me rethink a lot of things I was already rethinking, about how I grew up.”

“Sorry about your dad,” he says. “That must have been hard.”

“The worst part was being away. So–I get that. With you and your mom.”

“That’s not really it.” He rubs his face, looking embarrassed. “Wow, that sounded shitty, right? It’s not, like–this is how it’s always been. My mom works, and I take care of my sister. And I feel like I should be taking care of my sister. Not that I need to be there for my mom.”

“That’s kind of being there for your mom,” she says. “Taking the load off her.” It feels weird, but apparently she’s comforting him now, so she adds, “And she’s seventeen now. And a handful. So if you were home, she’d probably be even worse, with someone hovering.”

“Wow,” he says. “It’s like you’ve met her.”

“That bad?”

“Not _bad_. Just–teenagers are the worst. I was the worst when I was her age.”

“You’re still the worst.”

“That too.” But the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You ever feel like wherever you are, it’s the wrong place?”

“Yeah. But–don’t drop out of school.”

“Why not?”

“I’d miss you,” she says, and is saved from his response by the waitress bringing their food.

They shift topics after that, talking about finals and the class they just finished. The professor had been a nightmare, and she and Bellamy had been closer to allies than they’d ever been before. Not all the way, but–close.

“What are you taking next semester?” she asks.

“Two history, one Greek, and Art History 204.”

She feels herself grinning. “Seriously?”

“Don’t tell me.”

“It looks like a really interesting class.”

“It does.” He worries his lip. “I feel like we have to have a lot in common. Just–you can’t like so much stuff I like and not have good taste. And your opinions are getting better. And–this hasn’t sucked.”

“Hasn’t sucked,” she repeats, teasing.

“Well, no more than getting stuck at the airport for three hours is always going to suck.” He huffs. “Stop being an asshole. I’m trying to be nice.”

“If one of us isn’t being an asshole at any given time, I don’t know how we’d ever interact.”

“Yeah, neither do I. But, uh–we could work on finding out, right?”

Her smile feels kind of stupidly large. “Yeah. I think we could.”

The airport speaker buzzes into life, an announcement for people on the American Airlines flight to Chicago, and he sighs. “Uh, that’s my cue, I guess. You coming?”

“I’ll meet you. Just let me pay.”

His flight ends up leaving first, and she waits with him until it’s boarding. There’s an awkward pause while they just look at each other, and then she figures–it’s almost Christmas, and they had a nice day. So she leans up and wraps her arms around him, giving him a quick hug and smiling when he slowly returns it.

“Have a good break, Bellamy.”

“You too.” He’s smiling when she pulls away. “See you in Art History?”

“Yeah. Can’t wait.”

*

Their first class, he sits down next to her, casual, like it’s no big deal.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi. Have a good Christmas?”

“Yeah.” He ducks his head, smiles at her. “But–I couldn’t wait to get back.”

Her whole chest feels warm. “No. I couldn’t either.”


	46. Still We Should Be Prepared to Leave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [mischief7manager](http://mischief7manager.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: A Bellarke take on the movie The Holiday, perhaps with Linctavia as well?

“Hi, Bell!”

The artificial good cheer in his sister’s voice is not even a little bit surprising. She’s lucky she’s in LA, or he’d find her and kill her.

Okay, he wouldn’t. But still. He’s _pissed_.

“What the fuck, O!”

“What?”

“You switched houses with someone? You didn’t even _warn me_?”

“Warn you about what? It’s my life. I don’t have to tell you everything I do.”

He rubs his temples. He can just _feel_ a headache coming on. “Fuck, of course you don’t. That’s not what I meant. But if I left town for three weeks and rented my house out to some stranger, I’d–”

“What did you do?”

“What do you mean, what did _I_ do? You’re the one who bailed with no warning.”

“To Clarke, dumbass. What did you do?”

“Nothing.” It’s mostly true. He and O had a fight last week, and when she didn’t call or stop by, he finally decided to just go to her. It had been a shock, to see an unfamiliar woman opening his sister’s door, and he honestly could have dealt with it better. “I thought she was robbing you,” he admits.

There’s a pause, and then, to his profound relief, she laughs. “Because she was in my apartment? Why would a burglar open my door? Come on, Bell.”

“It wasn’t my finest moment, okay? She explained. It’s fine. You still should have told me.”

“It was spur-of-the-moment. Really.”

It’s not like he doesn’t believe her, exactly. It’s one of the things he’s never been able to relate to, when it comes to his sister. Octavia does things on impulse all the time; when he does it, it’s a sign that something has gone horribly, horribly wrong. But with O, it’s not a big deal. She just does these things.

“It doesn’t take long to make a phone call,” he says, but he makes sure his voice is mild, easy. She didn’t call him. That’s all there is to it. “How’s LA?”

“It’s good. Nice. Did you know there are places in the world where it isn’t cold and miserable in December?”

“Do you know some people like winter?”

“Nope, that’s a myth. Definitely never happens.”

“Definitely not.” He lets out a breath. “So, you’re not going to be here for Christmas? The kids are going to miss you.”

“I left presents at my place. I’ll text Clarke to let her know you need to get them. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“I didn’t mean they’d be sad you didn’t get them presents,” he says. “Just give us a call on Christmas, okay?”

“Obviously. I’ll send you Clarke’s number so you can coordinate. Love you, Bell.”

“Love you too,” he says, but she’s already hung up.

Pretty standard, these days.

*

He doesn’t mean to, one, get drunk with Clarke, two, complain to Clarke about how his sister left him behind with no warning, or, three, sleep with Clarke. Not that he actually regrets any of those choices, but he knows that, from an objective standpoint, they were all _bad_. Clarke is gorgeous and intelligent and interesting, exactly his type, but she’s also rich and successful and lives in California. And he’s a single dad who only got the night off because his daughters love when his best friend babysits. And there’s nothing _wrong_ with a one-off, casual thing. Casual is fine.

But he doesn’t leave after, and when he wakes up with her in his arms, it’s so _nice_. So, yeah. This was a _terrible_ idea. He should have known better.

“So, uh–this was nice,” he offers, lingering by the coffee maker.

Clarke laughs. “Don’t be weird, Bellamy. It was sex. You don’t have to be awkward about it.”

“I’m awkward by default.”

“I’m just here for a few weeks,” she says. “I’m not expecting anything. But–this was fun. Let me know if you want to do it again.”

It’s still a bad idea, but–she’s amazing and she hasn’t bothered putting on pants, just hanging out with him in the kitchen, legs bare under her t-shirt, hair in loose waves over her shoulders. And it’s been way too long since he felt like this, a curl of anticipation in his gut, attraction distracting him from all of his obligations.

“I don’t have anywhere to be until noon,” he offers.

She grins. “Awesome.”

*

In retrospect, he shouldn’t be surprised when she shows up at his place. Octavia’s got his address on her fridge, and he and Clarke have hooked up a couple times. If not for the fact that he’s home with his kids, he’d be pretty happy to see her.

Well, okay. He’s happy to see her anyway. He really, _really_ likes her, honestly. More than he should, given they’re both agreed that they’re just having casual sex.

“Sorry,” he hears Cassie saying. “I’m not allowed to let strangers in unless you have pizza.”

He sees Clarke just before he hears her, the soft, “No, I’m sorry, I must have–” Her voice dies at the sight of him, and he offers a crooked smile.

“Hi, Clarke. Cassie, this is my friend Clarke. She’s staying in Aunt Octavia’s place for Christmas. Clarke, this is Cassie, my oldest.”

“Oh, okay,” says Cassie. “You can come in. We have pizza coming.”

The smile Clarke gives her is warm, and Bellamy’s heart jams somewhere in his throat. He should have told her about this, just so she would have left before he ever had this memory, of Clarke and his daughter together, of the way Clarke’s mouth curves. “Nice to meet you, Cassie,” she says. “Thanks.”

“Sure!” says Cassie, and takes off, leaving him and Clarke alone in the hallway.

She crosses her arms and leans against the door, expression gone cool. “Your oldest?”

“She’s six,” he says. “And Penny’s four.”

“What happened to their mom?”

“Car crash. A year after Penny was born.”

“Fuck. I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah. It’s been hard.” He swallows. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. It was just–” He huffs. “Honestly, it was nice to just have a casual thing where I didn’t–I was taking a break. From my life.”

Her mouth quirks up in a small smile. “Obviously I get that.”

“Obviously.”

They both start talking at the same time, and he gestures for her to go ahead. He sees her take a breath before she says, “Sorry, I shouldn’t have come. I’ll take off.”

“No,” he says, so quickly it surprises him. “Uh, you can, yeah. If you don’t want to stay, I get that. But we’re going to eat pizza and hang out, so if you don’t have plans, you’re welcome. Not that–” He rubs his neck. “I know this isn’t really that exciting, but–”

To his surprise, she leans up and presses her lips against his, soft and brief. “You’re babbling. I don’t want to be here if it’s going to be weird for you. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“I usually don’t have plans,” he says. “But, yeah. It’s not weird. You’re welcome to stay.” He closes his eyes, exhales, and lets himself lean down, rest his forehead on hers for a second. “I’d like that.”

She follows him in to the living room, and he introduces her to Penny. The kids make room for them on the couch, and he maybe should have sent her home, because she fits in so perfectly, and she’s not staying. He won’t get to keep her.

But it’s such a nice night. He wouldn’t trade it for anything.

*

“In the interest of full disclosure, I’m falling for the woman who’s living in your place.”

As he hoped, Octavia chokes and splutters, like she was drinking something and fucked it up. “What? It’s been like two weeks!”

“Yeah, well. It turns out she’s amazing. So think about that next time you make a split-second decision. I might develop emotions again.” He sighs. “So, yeah. That sucks.”

“Why does it suck?”

“She’ll be gone in a week. I try not to fall for people who don’t live here. But–she met the kids, she’s been hanging out, I’m crazy about her. In fucking _no time_.”

“I have a thing for one of her friends, if it makes you feel better.”

“Misery loves company.”

There’s a long pause. “I’m thinking about moving out here. Not just because of him. I like it here. And you know I haven’t been happy in New York.”

“You had a hard year,” he says. He’s not sure if he’s agreeing with her or disagreeing.

“It’s not just that.”

“I know.” He closes his eyes. “So, you think you’re leaving.”

“Yeah. You should ask her if she just wants to stay switched forever. That’s how it works, right? I could just sublet my place. Problem solved. Trade your sister for a girlfriend.”

“That’s basically how marriage used to work, yeah.” It can’t possibly be that simple. And it shouldn’t be. It would be weird of him to even suggest it. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Tell her,” says O. “Come on, Bell. It’s Christmas. What have you got to lose? She’s already leaving if you don’t say anything.”

“Wow. That was helpful _and_ optimistic. LA really is good for you.”

“I’m telling you. Merry Christmas, Bell.”

“Merry Christmas.”

*

Miller and Monty take the girls the night before Clarke leaves, and he goes to see her. He hasn’t figured out what to say; he knows his life isn’t easy. Clarke is a rich, successful Hollywood executive. Bellamy’s an adjunct professor with two kids who gets by primarily because he has enough people in his life who love and support him. He doesn’t know what he’d do without them, and it’s terrifying, how much he already doesn’t know what he’ll do when Clarke leaves.

Which is why he blurts out, “You don’t have to go,” between kisses.

“What?” she asks.

He lets out a breath, drops his forehead onto his shoulder. “Don’t leave. Or–fuck, do, but–I don’t want this to be nothing, Clarke. You and me. I don’t want this to just end. I think–we’ve got something, right? Something worth working for.”

“Bellamy–”

“I know I’m making it weird, and I’m sorry, but–you’re amazing and I’m falling in love with you. I don’t want to give this up.”

“That’s all I know how to do,” she says, soft. “I’m not good at this stuff, Bellamy. I told you. Everyone I’ve ever dated says–”

“Were you different with them?”

“What?”

“Other people you’ve dated. Is there something that happens to you when you start dating someone that I’m missing? Because–you’re smart and you’re gorgeous and you’re amazing. You’re grumpy in the mornings and you’re so weirdly paranoid you’re going to fuck up, but–you’re not. You talk to my kids like they’re people, you tease me and tell me I’m being a dick and it’s absolutely everything I want. I don’t know what’s wrong with everyone else who ever said they didn’t want you, but–I do, Clarke. I want you so much.”

“I can’t,” she says, automatic. “It’s not–”

He’s not losing any more than he would have been if she’d just left. That’s what he tells himself.

“Okay,” he breathes. “I just–I couldn’t let you leave without saying it. But–okay. Do you want me to go?”

Her arms tighten around him, so hard it’s almost painful. “ _No_. I don’t–it’s my last night. Stay?”

Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t say no. He’ll take everything he can get. To the last possible second. Even if it will hurt more, when she finally goes.

He wakes up with her in his arms in the morning, makes coffee while she packs, and kisses her goodbye. She lingers against his mouth, but he doesn’t ask her to stay again. That’s done with. He asked, she said no. No harm, no foul.

Or an excess of both, but–it’s over.

He gives himself half an hour to stay at O’s, to clean up the dishes and make the bed, make sure everything is in order for the next person she rents it to, before he has to go and get his kids from Miller.

He ends up taking forty, and when he opens the door to leave, Clarke is there, staring up at him.

“Uh,” he says. “Did you, um–taxi not–”

“I don’t want to leave,” she says, in a rush. “I don’t–I can’t leave. Not when you’re here.”

“Thank fucking god,” he says, kisses her hard and deep, desperate. “Don’t. Please, please don’t.”

“I already said I wasn’t,” she says, laughing. Her arms are around him, holding on tight. “Did your sister find someone to sublet yet?”

“Not yet.”

“You should tell her to stop looking.”

He kisses her again. “In a minute,” he says. “I’m busy.”

“Okay, fine,” she agrees. “We’ve got a minute.”

They’ve got tons of them. He can’t wait.


	47. Better to Give Than to Receive timestamp: Bondage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [matriarchal](http://matriarchal.tumblr.com/)! Original fic [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6751867).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitely pornographic.

“So, are you even into getting tied up?”

They’re on the couch, Clarke leaning into Bellamy’s side while he works on his laptop, just being close to each other. A lot has changed in the week since they started dating, but in a way it’s more surprising how little has changed. Bellamy is still her best friend, the person she spends most of her time with. But she hasn’t slept in her own bed in days, and they’re touching basically all the time they’re together, like they still can’t get enough of it, even though they’d been fucking for months before that.

Being in love is so much better. No comparison.

“What?” she asks, blinking up at him. He’s put aside his laptop and is flushing faintly, not looking at her.

He’s so cute.

“The, uh–I have one coupon left. I didn’t know how to ask if you really wanted me to use it. Bondage is one of those things I figure requires enthusiastic consent. We don’t have to do it. I’m really satisfied with our sex life as-is.”

She pushes herself up so she can curl into his side, wrapping him up. “Are you into it? Do you want to?”

“Feels like a shame to not use all the coupons,” he says, gruff, but then he relents. “It’s not, like–a huge kink for me, generally. But, uh–you’re a huge kink for me, so I wouldn’t mind trying it out. If you’re into it.”

“You know _you_ can just say you’re into it,” she says, poking him. “I’m not going to feel pressured just because you want to do it. The reason I haven’t said no to any of this stuff is that I don’t want to, not that I think I can’t.” She pauses, but if he’s going to feel weird, she might as well talk through it. “I guess I don’t get, like–there isn’t a lot of base appeal for me. I don’t get what it adds. So if you’re into it, tell me what you’re looking forward to.”

He slides his hand just under her shirt, thumb rubbing over her hipbone, skin just a little rough. “You’re pushy,” he says. “And I love that, don’t get me wrong. You’re pushy and impatient and if I’m not going fast enough, you take over. And I really don’t mind, but–yeah, it would be fun if you couldn’t.” He butts his nose against her hair. “If I could just wind you up and you’d want to touch yourself but you couldn’t do anything but wait for me to finally get you off? Yeah, uh–I’m into that.”

Clarke’s breath catches. She hadn’t thought of it like that, of Bellamy getting to do whatever he wanted, of her not being able to shove him down to eat her out when she got desperate, of not being able to just climb on top of him when she was ready.

“I could live with that,” she says, her voice coming out a little unsteady, and he laughs.

“Like I said, if you’re _not_ into it,” he teases, and she elbows him.

“You want to do it tonight?”

“We’re not doing anything else, right?”

“Yeah, but–last coupon,” she points out. “I feel like we should have a ceremony or something. Some fanfare.”

“Get a drumroll going on your phone.”

“Exactly.” She lets out a breath, because she’s already a little wet, and now she’s thinking about it, about his hands and mouth all over her, about herself totally at his mercy. “Okay, fanfare over. I’m all set.”

“I’m glad you’re into this,” he teases.

“As it turns out, you’re a huge kink for me, too.”

“Okay.” He wets his lips, nods once. “Uh, go to your room and get naked? I’m going to go find some stuff.”

“Why my room?”

“I think your bed has a better headboard. For restraints. And then we can go sleep in mine and no one has to be in the wet spot.”

“Okay. Totally naked?”

“Totally naked.” He leans down to kiss her. “Don’t touch yourself. At all.”

The note of firm command in his voice is new, and it sends a shiver of arousal down her spine. Clarke tends to prefer sex that’s–laid back. She’s dated people who want the experience to be somber and serious, some kind of perfect, transcendent union, and she mostly doesn’t get that. Sex is fun and messy and occasionally hilarious, and acting like it’s not almost never works for Clarke.

But Bellamy telling her what to do? That’s something else.

She strips down slowly, mostly because she doesn’t want to spend too long lying on her bed naked, getting cold and bored, thinking about what comes next. Thinking about how she isn’t allowed to touch herself.

She stretches out and closes her eyes, too aware of everything, _already_ making a wet spot on the bed. Bellamy was right, it’s going to be nice to have somewhere else to sleep after.

He might have to carry her in, but he’ll probably be willing.

He’s fully clothed when he comes back, with a couple of old ties, scissors, lube, and condoms. “I, uh, did some reading. I don’t really feel like going out to get rope, but this should be fine, as long as we’re careful. I’m not planning to choke you or anything, and I’m not really into, like–no means yes? So if you tell me to stop or that something hurts, I figured I’d just stop. I think it should be pretty okay, but if you want to get–”

“How much reading did you do?”

“That’s what I was doing when you were playing on your phone.”

She has to smile. “Of course you were. Look, I trust you did all the reading you needed to, and if you think ties are going to be okay, I’ll go with it.”

“Yeah, I practiced the knot a couple times in my room. If it’s not comfortable, we’ll do something else. I’ve got scissors in case I need to cut you out, and–’”

“I trust you.”

“Yeah, well, I’m talking through it for me,” he says, but he puts down his stuff on her bedside table and leans over to kiss her. “Do you want a safe word? Other than _no_?”

“I think that should be fine.”

“Okay, cool. So, I’m just going to–” He wets his lips, grabs one of the ties. “Hands up, wrists together.”

His voice is firm again, commanding, and Clarke obeys without thinking, holding her arms up for him and letting him bind them to the headboard. She tugs a little, experimental, and she can’t get out, but it’s not uncomfortable or anything.

“Good?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Okay, I’m going to see if I can do your legs,” he says. “If anything hurts, let me know, but–”

“I’ll tell you.”

It feels a little strange, being bound and exposed, but like she said, she trusts him. And it’s still just–hot. Bellamy slides off her to survey his handiwork, and the hot sweep of his eyes makes her squirm.

She can’t do anything about it, just squirm, and it’s way more of a turn-on than she expected.

“Ready?”

“Yeah.”

“Your safeword is literally anything negative,” he says. “Except begging. Begging I’m going to take as a sign I’m doing a good job.”

He starts off just kissing her, pulling back when she gets too eager, reining in her enthusiasm carefully. His mouth is soft and hot, his tongue demanding, and she finds herself straining toward his body impotently, trying to get closer and unable to move. His hand finally comes up to cup her breast, fingers toying with her nipple, making her arch and gasp. He trails his mouth down to her neck, her shoulders, the scrape of teeth not hard enough to leave lasting marks, just to light her skin on fire.

All her nerves are tingling, more sensitive than they’ve ever been. She can’t tell if it’s because she’s tied up, or just because she’s so aware. Just because he’s warned her that she won’t get what she wants for a while, and it just makes her want it more.

“Bell,” she gasps, when his mouth closes around her other nipple. Her breasts are sensitive, always have been, and he loves playing with them, but he never did it as much when they were using the coupons. They tended to avoid foreplay, because they were so goal-oriented.

It’s like he’s making up for all of that at once, exploring every inch of her with his hands and his mouth, while she whines and moans and her hips jerk against nothing, desperate for his touch.

“Bell, please,” she says, and he slides back up to kiss her.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs. “You feel good, Clarke?”

“I need you. Please, I’m so–fuck, I want you so much, _please_.”

His thumb flicks her nipple, and her hips jump again. He lets out a soft laugh. “What do you want?”

She wets her lips, swallows. “Anything.”

“Be specific,” he says. “Tell me exactly what you want.”

It’s hard to think; she’s so wet and so desperate, and he’s still playing with her breast, her nipple tender from all the attention. She’s going to be sore tomorrow, and she can’t even begin to care.

“Your mouth,” she says. “Please. Fuck, I want your mouth on my clit, I want your fingers inside me, _please_ , I need you.”

“That’s good,” he murmurs, and his kiss is soft. “Yeah, I think you deserve it.” He slides away from her, making her whimper at the loss, and positions himself between her legs. To her surprise, he doesn’t lean in, though, but turns around. “I’m going to untie your legs,” he says. “So you can move back a little and stretch. Just don’t press them together like I know you want to.”

The relief sounds heavenly, but the command still makes her smile. She wouldn’t have anyway, but–she likes that he’s thinking of it.

She flexes her right leg and then her left after he frees them, and then lets him push her back on the bed. He seems to realize the break took the edge off her arousal, because he doesn’t go in right away. Instead he goes to her thigh, sucking a bruise into it, kissing everywhere but where she most wants him, until she’s desperate and straining against her bindings again, until she begs, “Bell, please, I need it.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I got you.”

He leans in and presses his lips against her clit, a soft, gentle kiss that still makes her jerk. She can feel his smile, and he murmurs, “Stay,” low, and it’s unspeakably hot.

He works two fingers inside her, mouth hot and steady on her clit, and her first orgasm comes fast and hard, the relief of it like a dam bursting. Bellamy seems to think it’s insufficient, doesn’t let up until he’s coaxed another out of her, and then he only pulls off to throw off his own clothes. He surges up for a kiss, wet and dirty, and murmurs, “Fuck, Clarke, I love you,” against her mouth.

She laughs. “I love you too. Are you gonna fuck me?”

“Yeah. Sorry, I just–god, you’re so fucking hot.”

“I have no idea why you’re apologizing.”

“I was trying to say cool and in-control,” he says, flashing her a smile. “But, jesus, the sounds you’re making. You’re not the only one who really needs to come.”

“You really have nothing to be sorry about,” she says, and he slides on a condom, slicks himself up, and kisses her as he slides in. She wraps her legs around him, encouraging, and the pace he sets is hard and fast, perfect. But next time, she’s going to make him untie her first, because she really, really wants to be digging her fingernails into his back.

He manages to get her off again just before he comes, and he slumps onto her, gasping for breath, for just a few seconds before his fingers go for the tie on her wrists.

Stretching her arms is even better than stretching her legs was, and he laughs at the sound she makes.

“That’s the last orgasm of the night, huh?” he teases.

“You’d be achy too.”

He kisses her shoulder. “Definitely.” There’s a pause, and he adds, “If you want to try it the other way around sometime, I’m game.”

She closes her eyes, tries not to think about Bellamy, dick hard and hot, squirming as she teases him. She’s still twitching with aftershock; she doesn’t need to get turned on again. “Definitely sometime,” she says, and burrows against his chest. “I don’t think I can walk.”

He scoops her up easily. “Yeah, I figured. I’ve got you.”

She closes her eyes, relaxes against him. She can hear his heartbeat under her ear, steady and solid. Her person. “Yeah,” she says. “I know.”


	48. Ad Victoriam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [thelightreflects](http://thelightreflects.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: bellarke + “I work at the photo center and you have the best christmas cards ever. it was an honour to print out 50 cards of you dressed as a gladiator, slaying a christmas tree” AU

Clarke was honestly sort of surprised she could still get a job at a print shop, which she guesses is a function of being both rich and artistic in her own right. She’s had a printer capable of doing whatever she wants to do for basically as long as she can remember, plus photoshop and a decent amount of skill, so she thinks of graphic design as something basically anyone can do, if they want, but within a week of working for Lincoln, she finds this is just not true at all. Which is nice, honestly. Her job involves helping little old ladies put together cards to send their grandchildren, advising high-school and college students on how to put together presentation posters, and judging people who do this stuff without getting her advice. It’s perfect. She likes it.

The first time Bellamy comes in, it’s late September, and he needs help with signs.

“Uh, hi, do you do consultations, or do I just have to use the shitty files I have?”

The question would make her smile even if he wasn’t really, really hot and vaguely flustered. Based on the messy hair and crooked glasses she sort of figures he’s overslept and is panicking, but later encounters will teach her that’s just who he is as a person.

“I can do a consultation,” she says. “What are you trying to do?”

“I’m a high-school teacher,” he says. “I’ve got an event this weekend and I’ve been so busy I’m just getting to the signage. Right now it’s just, like–72-point Times New Roman, and my students are definitely going to make fun of me for not being more creative.”

“So, what I’m getting is that you’re not creative, but you want your students to think you are, so you want me to help you lie to them.”

“It’s not lying,” he says, but he sounds amused. “Just deception.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s cool then. Do you have a flash drive? I love deceiving teenagers.”

That gets a laugh out of him, quick and surprised. He’s stupidly cute. “I do have a flash drive, yeah. But, seriously, I’m pretty sure we don’t actually have to work from it. My designs are bringing absolutely nothing to the table.”

“Well, they have the text,” she teases. “That’s an important first step.”

“Oh, yeah. I’m an artist.”

He fumbles the flash drive out of his bag and passes it over to her, and once she’s got the stuff loaded, she jerks her head for him to join her. When he leans over her shoulder, she gets a whiff of his cologne, and she can feel the warmth of his chest against her back.

Attractive customers are always kind of a nice perk, but this one is distracting.

“Okay, so, what’s your thing?” she asks.

“It’s, uh–mythology fair. I’m a Latin teacher. This is my first year, so I’m picking up a bunch of programs and trying to get my lesson plans together on top of that. It’s a lot. This is something the Latin club puts on for the elementary school, so we’ve got booths and games and stuff. All the other signs are really old and shitty, so I want to get some made now and then I’ll have them for my other events.”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” says Clarke. “Okay, so, let’s see what we’re working with.”

They get his signs looking less boring, and Clarke tells him they’ll be ready in twenty-four hours. She gets his name for the order and files it away–Bellamy Blake–even though it’s very likely it won’t ever matter. It’s just kind of a cool name. Memorable.

But he does become something of a regular after that. As a new teacher, Bellamy’s got a lot of things to make, and he seems to be something of a perfectionist, because he’ll come in just to get Clarke to help him with the formatting of his activity sheets and posters. They chat enough that she starts finding out more about him–twenty-six, recently moved to town because his sister started college in the city and he’s paranoid about her being far away, pretty terrible with technology, kind of grumpy–and giving out information about herself in return, making sure he gets that she’s in her first year of grad-school and completely within a valid age range for him to date.

Not that he will, but–just in case he was curious. He should definitely know that.

In late November, Lincoln notes that he came in, asked for Clarke, and said that he’d just come back later when Lincoln told him she wasn’t there, so Clarke figures there’s a slight chance he really _is_ curious. She’s hoping.

He comes by the next day with a flash drive. “Okay, so, you have to promise not to laugh at me.”

“Nope,” she says, unrepentant. “There is no way I’m promising that. I’m not saying I _will_ laugh at you, but I’m not ruling anything out.”

He laughs. “Yeah, okay. I don’t know why I thought that would work.” He drums his fingers on the table. “Okay, so–I have to make holiday cards.”

“Wow. You sound so excited about it.”

“It’s for this, uh–there’s a holiday fair, and one of the things the administration wants is for all the faculty to offer, like–their own holiday cards. Which makes no sense to me, but I guess I can use all the ones I don’t sell to send to random people I know from Facebook.”

“Okay. So, at what point do I start laughing at you?”

He hands her his flash drive. “I had to take pictures. I could use some advice on which one’s best. But, seriously, don’t laugh _too hard_. Keep in mind I’m a teacher and I’m trying to sell these to my students.”

“You’re really raising my expectations on these,” she teases.

“Yeah, of course. That way when you see them, you’re going to be like, _oh, he was making way too big a deal about this_ and they’re a let down.”

Clarke opens up the _Shit for Clarke_ folder, like she always does, and lets out a sharp burst of laughter as the pictures load. “Holy shit, Bellamy.”

“I didn’t have any ideas for what to do!” he protests, laughing himself. He leans over her shoulder, watching her scroll through. “Basically the only vibe I’m working is _giant dork_ so I figured I’d just lean into it.”

“These are amazing. Like–wow. I’ve had to print way too many Christmas cards this year and they’re all, like–the best anyone generally does is awkward poses in Christmas sweaters. Most of them are just boring and wholesome. But this–this is art.”

“I was hoping you’d think so, yeah.”

Bellamy has about fifteen different shots of himself, decked out in what appears to be fairly authentic Roman gladiator armor, attacking a Christmas tree. He’s got a clear narrative thread going throughout, with a few shots of him hacking at the tree, and then finally defeating it, standing over his fallen foe in triumph.

“Wow. Yeah, this is–something.”

“My best friend is never going to stop making fun of me. He’s the one who took the pictures.”

“They’re pretty good, but you should have called me,” she says, without thinking. “No offense to him or anything, but I’m a great photographer.”

She only realizes what she said when he doesn’t respond, and she glances up to see him watching her, thoughtful. “I don’t actually have your number,” he points out. “Also, I’m not going to ask you to come over and take pictures of me on your time off. I already feel bad enough monopolizing you at work.”

“This is literally my job,” she says. “And you’re a highlight.” She can’t keep looking at him after that, so she turns her attention to the computer instead. “Okay, so, here’s what I’m thinking for the cards.”

He doesn’t say anything more about it, just leans in and lets her walk him through designing the card and figuring out a message, and when they’re done, he gets his estimate and leaves with a smile, like always.

Clarke puts her head down on the counter and groans, which is less standard, but still a valid use of her time, as far as she’s concerned. Crushes are the _worst_.

She has finals coming up, so she’s not actually on-shift when he comes to pick up the cards, and she has no idea when she’ll see him next. And, honestly, it _sucks_ , only seeing him every other week or so, never knowing when it’s going to happen next. He’s awesome, and she’s pretty sure he likes her too. As a friend, if nothing else.

The high-school holiday craft fair is open to the public and on a day Clarke doesn’t work or have to study non-stop, so she figures that’s as a good a first step as anything. If he seems happy to see her, they can go from there, and if he doesn’t, she has plausible deniability for being there. It’s a craft fair. She has presents to buy. She loves craft fairs.

The gymnasium is packed with booths and people, way more than Clarke would have expected. She takes her time with it, checking out student booths and other faculty ones. No one seems to have had much of an idea of what to with the admin-mandated holiday cards either, but most went along the same lines as Bellamy, something related to their field and kind of funny. But none of them as as good as Bellamy’s, obviously.

She’s not the only one who thinks so, because Bellamy’s booth is packed when she gets there, and his cards are almost gone, while everyone else still has a ton left.

He sees her when a couple teenage girls clear out, and she’s pretty sure he isn’t faking the huge smile that breaks out on his face. The relief of it is palpable.

“Hey!” he says. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought it would be unscrupulous to steal one of your cards when I printed them, so I thought I should just come buy one.”

He ducks his head, still grinning. “Yeah, that would have been weird. Uh–here, come on.” He jerks his head for her to join her behind the table, and she does. There’s a spare seat with his coat and a bag on it, but he clears them off and gestures for her to sit. “This way my students will be slightly less suspicious.”

“Really?”

A group of kids comes by and Bellamy stands to chat with them. He’s selling Latin club merchandise in addition to his cards, although those don’t seem nearly as popular. Clarke’s expecting a photoset captioned  _look at my Latin teacher’s holiday card_ to go viral on tumblr in the next few days. Nothing says instant internet fame like a hot dude being a total dork in cosplay.

“They might think you’re my girlfriend,” he admits, once the kids have cleared out. “But my best friend Miller was hanging out earlier so you’re not the only one to be back here. And I think my sister might stop by later, so, yeah.” He pauses, but then adds, deliberate, “It’s probably less suspicious than me flirting with you across the table. And I figure you might stay longer.”

When she grins, he relaxes, and it’s perfect. “I don’t have anything else to do today. And I still need to get a card.”

“I, uh–I actually have one for you. I was trying to figure out the least awkward way to give it to you. Since I don’t know your address, and I thought it might be weird to go into your job and give it to you.”

“Not that weird.”

“Well, uh, I wrote a message on there.” He roots around in his bag and produces an envelope. Clarke opens it up and finds the promised card, and inside the message, _This would look even dorkier if you hadn’t helped. Can I buy you dinner sometime?_ “I thought that might make it weird,” he adds, when she doesn’t reply.

“No, no,” she says, quick. “I was just thinking, all this would be a lot easier if you just had my number. Coordinating dinner and photoshoots and all that.”

He grins. “Yeah, that does sound a lot easier.”

Next year, he doesn’t _have_ to do cards, because the administration realized it was a terrible idea, but they figure they might as well do obnoxious couples cards for all their friends. In gladiator armor. Since they can.

“This is why I love you,” Bellamy says, laughing as she adjusts color levels on the pictures.

“My photoshop skills,” she says, with a heavy sigh. “I knew you were just using me for cheap image editing.”

“Yup,” he says. “And the sex is pretty decent, as a bonus.” He kisses her jaw. “But yeah, that’s your entire appeal.”

“I can live with that,” she says. She prints off a sample card for him. “How’s this look?”

He grins, finds a magnet and pins in on the fridge for good measure. “Perfect.”


	49. this love that I've cradled is wearing thin - Clarke POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [a-sudden-twist](http://a-sudden-twist.tumblr.com/)! Original fic [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4901110).

Clarke remembers the worst six months of her life in fragments, like her life just broke apart when her father died and she never actually found all of the pieces. Most of that time, she has no idea what was happening; she was walking through life like a ghost, trying to hold herself together, trying to be there for Bellamy, trying to finish college and then just–get out. She felt like she couldn’t breathe, like she didn’t deserve to. She remembers jagged pain, remembers feeling like she was drowning, remembers how hard Bellamy worked to make sure she didn’t, when he had so much to do himself.

She remembers breaking up with him because she didn’t know how to deserve him, didn’t know how to let him care for her, when he had so many more important things to do.

She tries not to remember his face when she did it, but that’s something she can’t forget. She wishes it was another one of the things she knows happened, intellectually, but doesn’t really _remember_ , but–no.

It’s impossible to forget just how much she hurt Bellamy. And part of her doesn’t actually want to, not really. She doesn’t get to forget that. She doesn’t get to sweep it aside.

The first time she sees him in person again, it feels like her legs might give out. He looks largely the same, older and slightly broader, a little frayed around the edges, but–Bellamy. The first person she ever really loved.

The only person whose heart she’s ever _broken_.

She spots him before he spots her, and she’s frozen in indecision for a long minute, unsure if she should say something or avoid him. It’s been four years, and he probably _still_ doesn’t want to see her. But she can’t help it. He’s the scab that’s never healed over; she’s been picking at the wound for years, every show he’s contributed to, every time he’s appeared on camera. She doesn’t know how to stop being aware of him.

So she takes a deep breath, straightens her shirt and goes over. He’s on his phone, not paying attention to his surroundings, and she nearly changes her mind five times before she gets to him.

He looks up right as she does, eyes widening in shock at the sight of her before the shutters come down and his face goes blank and distant.

It hurts, but the good kind of hurting. The kind she deserves.

“Hey,” she breathes. “I thought that was you.”

“Hey,” he echoes. “Yeah. It’s me.”

This would be the time to apologize, but they’re in a fucking Starbucks, and it’s busy, and–she doesn’t know what to say yet. She’s not sure she’ll _ever_ know what to say.

“What brings you to New York?” she asks instead.

“Uh, new job. I’m not quite here yet, but–I had the interview yesterday, they gave me the position, so I’m looking for apartments.”

“Lead anchor?”

He snorts. “Yeah, definitely not yet.”

“Still, that’s awesome. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

She wets her lips. “We should get coffee or something sometime. Catch up.”

His mouth quirks, just a little. “You know we’re at a Starbucks right now, right? Getting coffee.”

“Yeah, but I have a meeting in ten minutes.”

“Yeah. Maybe later.”

She doesn’t really believe it, but–the fact that he’s pretending is encouraging. It makes her think they might _someday_ be able to talk. That would be nice. She’d like to know that he’s doing okay without her.

She doesn’t let herself hope he might ever do okay _with her_ , not again.

Sometimes, you don’t deserve another chance.

*

It doesn’t really get less awkward between them. They can talk like normal people, when circumstances bring them together, but she’s pretty sure he’s actively trying to make sure they don’t, and she can’t blame him. She doesn’t know what to say either, and she’s not even the injured party in their breakup. Not that she wasn’t hurt, but–she was the instigator. She doesn’t get to be upset.

Which is why it feels so unfair to put his name in for consideration for the anchor position. It’s a stupid way to feel, of course. It’s an amazing opportunity for him, one that he would be thrilled to get. He’s never been lead anchor before. This would be _his own show_. And he’s perfect for it. The other producers say they’re looking for a unique voice, someone with opinions and drive, someone to carve out a place in the news. Trustworthy, youth-oriented, and intelligent.

He’s the first person she thinks of, and no matter how hard she tries to come up with other options, just to be fair, she can’t think of anyone. This is Bellamy’s show. It has to be Bellamy’s show.

She opts out of being the one to offer the position, but volunteers to call Octavia and ask if she wants to be a correspondent. It feels like a good way to test the waters. A decent indication of how much vitriol she should be expecting.

“Octavia Blake,” she says when she picks up. “I’m working on my thesis, so make it quick.”

“Hi, Octavia. This is Clarke Griffin. I–”

“Clarke.”

“Yes.”

“What the fuck.”

It’s actually kind of nice. Bellamy’s probably going to be a little polite. Octavia is going to curse her until her face goes blue.

“It’s been _ten years_ , Clarke, what the fuck are you doing calling me? What can you possibly want? If you want to talk about my brother, that ship has sailed. You fucked up, and I don’t care if you just woke up from whatever coma you’ve been in for ten years, but you broke his heart and you don’t get to come back and do it again. That’s not how this works.”

“That’s not why I’m calling,” she says, when Octavia takes a breath. It feels a little bit like a lie. “I’m offering you a job.”

Octavia stops short, but just for a second. She’s always been quick on her feet, even when they first met, when she was an angry teenager. “No way. That’s–this is fucked up. You’re just going to call me up and think that giving me a job makes up for–do you even know what it was like for him? For both of us? No, you don’t, because you left. And you haven’t even tried to–no. You don’t get to do this.”

“You’re turning down a job because I broke up with your brother ten years ago?” she asks, mild. And then, before Octavia can respond, she adds, “One of the other producers should be getting in touch with him as we speak. We want him for our lead anchor. He’d be perfect. And I want you on staff. I think it could be really good. If you’re not interested, that’s fine, but I think it would be a great opportunity, and I want both of you on it.”

This time, she’s quiet for a lot longer. “You want Bell to be lead anchor?”

“Yeah.”

“Because you feel bad?”

“Because I think he’s be good for the job. He’s a fucking amazing reporter, and he always has been. I want him on my show. If he doesn’t want it, I’ll understand, but he’s the best person for the job. No question. If we didn’t offer it to him, I’d be shooting myself in the foot.”

“Fine,” she says, after another pause. “I need to check some stuff. Make sure the dates work out. And if Bell’s out, I’m out.”

“Okay.” She pauses, but it feels unwise to ask Octavia if she thinks her brother will want it. It feels too much like gossip, and she’s pretty sure if she acts like she _wants_ him to want it for anything aside from professional reasons, Octavia will turn on her again.

Which–she’s also pretty sure she’d _deserve it_.

So she can’t really hold it against her.

*

It’s not as if she’s been in love with Bellamy Blake for ten years. It’s just that–she’s regretted him for that long. She’s regretted what she did, and she’s wanted to make it better. And she still does. She’s just lucky that making it better and doing the right thing for her show and her career are, in this case, the same thing.

So when Bellamy calls, she takes a breath and picks up the phone. She’s a professional, and she’s going to handle this _right_. “Hey, Bellamy,” she says. Cool. Professional. By the book. “Good to hear from you. Congratulations on the new show.”

“Thanks,” he says, just as even.“ Were you voting for or against me?”

She lets out a small, surprised noise, and finds herself actually smiling. “Are you kidding? I was the one who put your name into consideration in the first place.”

There’s a pause, noticeable but not quite long enough to be awkward, and then he says, “Then, thanks, I guess.”

“Don’t thank me yet, I’m hiring Octavia too.”

She smiles wider when he makes a strangled sound. “You want Octavia in on this?”

“She’s smart, she’s capable, and she doesn’t take shit,” she says. “And she knows how to deal with you. I want her on the team. She’ll do good work finding stories, and if we need her in front of the camera sometime, she’ll be great.”

“Has she agreed yet?”

“She’s finalizing details. But I think she’s going to. She just needs to make sure she can finish the second PhD in time. You know, I always thought you were the nerd in your family.”

“Me too.” He pauses, but he sounds curious when he asks, “What did she say when you called?”

Clarke huffs a laugh. “She spent about ten minutes telling me I had a lot of nerve calling her before I could break in and tell her I wanted to give her a job on your show. And then five more minutes telling me I had a lot of nerve asking her if she wanted a job. She did, but–I still have a lot of nerve, apparently.”

He laughs too, and some wild part of her wishes they were doing this in person. That they had drinks and we chatting and laughing together. Hesitant and quiet, but–real.

Maybe they’ll get that. They are going to be seeing a lot more of each other.

“That sounds like O, yeah,” he says.

“It’s exactly what I was expecting.” It feels like the time to bring up–whatever she needs to bring up. But she doesn’t know what to say about that yet, so she stalls for time. “So, did you have any other questions? Concerns?”

“Tons,” he says, dry, and she winces.

“If you doubt either of our abilities to be professional–” she says, and feels like a tool.

“I don’t,” he says, mercifully cutting her off. “It’s just generally concerning.”

It feels like the moment. He brought it up, sort of. He brought it up enough. “I didn’t ever apologize, did I?” she asks.

“You did. Five years ago, MSNBC Christmas party.” His voice is a little teasing when he adds, “You were wasted. I figured you probably apologized to a lot of people.”

She laughs a little, but she doesn’t let him distract her. She needs to stay this. “Not a good apology,” she insists. “Not–I know there’s no good way to be, like–god. I thought about calling you so many times, but an apology is to make me feel better, not you. And you’re the one who–” It’s getting into–something it sounds like she wants forgiveness for. And that’s not what this is about She takes a breath and says, “This is going to be a good show. We’ve got a great team. We’ve got you. So tell me what you need me to do for you, and I’ll do it. If I need to apologize or to–”

“It’s fine,” he says, too quickly. “Water under the bridge, right? I get why you did it. It sucked, but I get it.” There’s a pause, but he doesn’t feel done. “Did it help? Getting away from everything?”

Her eyes slide closed. Sometimes she still feels like an open wound, but–she’s not. She’s happy, most of the time. She’s doing better. Even if there are parts of her that aren’t healed. “Yeah. It helped.”

“Then I’m glad. And we’re good.”

“Okay.” She lets out a breath and steels herself to let him go. But it’s not forever. She’s going to see him soon. “I’m looking forward to working with you, Bellamy.”

“Yeah.” It sounds like he means it. “You too.”

*

She buys coffee for everyone on the first day, and it feels so _weird_ , because it’s what she always does, but the knowledge of her personal connections make it feel like she has ulterior motives, like she’s doing it to curry favor with the Blakes.

And, okay, the travel mug is maybe a little much, except that it _isn’t_. This is all so fucking normal.

She’s a professional. She knows how to do her job. Doing her job tends to involve being nice to the people she’s working with, forging personal connections, and making sure they all get along. This is exactly what she should be doing. She and Bellamy are going to be working together. This is normal.

He’s the second to arrive, because of course he is. He’s always been punctual.

He blinks, like he wasn’t expecting her, somehow. “Hey,” he says. He’s not going to be on camera today, so he’s wearing his glasses and no tie, but still pressed and professional.

He’s aged really well, and she should not be thinking about it.

“Morning,” she says, and offers him the mug of coffee. “Splash of milk, no sugar?”

“Yeah,” he says, and his lips quirk up at the sight of the mug, just a little. “Did you get this custom made?” he asks.

It’s weird. It was definitely weird. This whole thing is weird.

“I could have gotten it at a nautical gift shop. I couldn’t find one with Bellamy, but Blake was easy. Apparently your names are in the wrong order.” He’s looking less and less impressed, but–in a friendly way. So she gives up, offers him a smile. “Yeah, okay, I got it made. I know this is your first time being lead, and I know this is awkward, so I figured–we should get off to a good start, right?”

He looks down into the mug, and she thinks maybe he’s smiling and doesn’t want her to see, but then he meets her eyes, and his smile is real and warm. “Right. Thanks, Clarke.”

“So, how much of a shitshow is this going to be?” she asks, right as he takes his first sip of coffee.

He chokes, laughing. “You did that on purpose.”

“Yup.”

“Well, that seems like how much of a shitshow it’ll be,” he says. “You deliberately sabotaging me. Trying to get me to choke on my coffee.”

“That was exactly my plan, yeah. It’s a long con. Lulling you into a false sense of security and then bam.”

“It’ll take longer than this,” he says, clearly without thinking, and Clarke actually smiles. It should maybe hurt, but–she’d rather he was honest than anything else.

A few more of the staff come in before she can respond, and that’s fine too. After all, if all she needs is time, well.

Time, she has.

*

Much like she didn’t get involved with the show to see more of Bellamy, she also didn’t start it to look into the Kane thing; it’s just a welcome side effect of doing what she would have done anyway. And Bellamy was interested in looking into him too, so it’s not like it was just her. And she was going to leave it to Octavia, but, well–Octavia is smart and driven, but she doesn’t have the right connections for this job. Not like Clarke does.

So, yeah, she takes over. It’s not her _fault_. But she’s not upset about it either. Because there has to be something, and she’s going to find it.

She has to.

It’s just that once she starts, it’s so hard to stop. It feels, all the time, like she’s on the verge of something, like she’s just about to crack everything open, and she’s so fucking _ready_.

She can’t wait to stop feeling like her whole life is defined by a few moments when she was twenty-two.

The sound of the door opening again is only a little bit surprising, because she still knows Bellamy. He’s so bad at leaving her to work alone, when he could be helping her.

“Did you even finish your drink?” she asks, not looking up.

He leans in to watch her screen. “I chugged it. You know, Kane was _your_ idea,” he adds, when she doesn’t respond.

“Hm?”

“I got so distracted fighting about not having enough information about him, I forgot it wasn’t my idea to look into his shit. But Kane’s books were on your list of potential stories, not just mine. So–you think he’s shifty too. That’s why you took over so hard.”

It’s all true, of course, and–if she’s honest, she was hoping he’d notice. That he’d put it together. She didn’t know how to tell him, not unless he asked. “He and my mom started doing business together right before my dad died,” she admits. They were always close, but–I heard them arguing about it. Before everything happened. I didn’t think about it for a while, because I was–“ The words die in her throat, but Bellamy is watching her, steady, and she makes herself say it. He knows, but–he doesn’t know _everything_. “I was sure I’d distracted him, that he took his eyes off the road, but–I’ve gone over it a thousand times. I didn’t do anything wrong. And my mom–you should have seen her, when she found out I was in the car. I figured she was just relieved I was alive, but–a few years ago, I started thinking that wasn’t it. That they–” She’s never told anyone this before. He can be the first one. “I think my mom might have been involved. I don’t think it was–”

He moves closer, arm warm around her, and she doesn’t cry with supreme effort. It’s not–she doesn’t even _know_. She’s not sure, and she feels like such an asshole, for wanting her mother to have done this. To have to accuse someone else to erase her own guilt and culpability.

It’s not why she thinks her mother was involved. She knows it’s not. But it _feels_ like that.

“So, why are you looking into him now?” he asks. His voice is so soft, and his thumb is rubbing soothing circles against her shoulder. The comfort of being close to him is so intense she almost can’t believe it. She’s missed being near him even more than she knew, and she knew she missed it a lot.

She takes a breath, composes herself. “I’ve been looking into him for a while, when I have time, but it’s slow going.”

“No, I mean, why are you looking for sketchy shit _now_?” he persists. “Why don’t you try to figure out what happened ten years ago? If your dad figured something out, you can too, right?”

She freezes, shocked. It makes so much sense. She’d just assumed that if they’d been doing bad shit before, they still would be. And–maybe they are. But maybe they’re being extra careful. “Fuck,” she says, with a short, disbelieving laugh. She grins at him. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

He returns her smile, all warmth and teasing. “Because I’m the smart one, You should have told me.”

“I know, uh–I know you don’t like remembering that. I don’t either.” He squeezes her, and apparently that’s it. It’s not that she’s not good with how they are. She _is_ good. That’s what’s so overwhelming. She doesn’t know how much longer she can go, waiting for the other shoe to drop. So she just asks, “How can you be so fucking–so _normal_? I still can’t think about what I did to you without wanting to cry. And you’re just–you’re okay.”

He still sounds find. His voice is even, easy. It’s unreal to her. “You broke up with me. People break up all the time, Clarke. You didn’t want–”

It’s the stupidest thing she’s ever heard, and she can’t even let him finish. “That wasn’t it. Don’t say I didn’t want you.” It’s a profoundly unfair thing to say, even if it’s true,so she looks away, refocuses. Which just reminds her what she was doing before, reminds her what she needs to do now. “I haven’t ever been able to look at the articles about the crash,” she admits. And he’s still here, so she adds,“Do you, um–will you stay?”

His arm is still around her, somehow. He gives her one more squeeze and then slides his chair toward the printer. “Yeah, of course. Give me some printouts.”

It’s another hour before she remembers to say, “Thanks.”

“Sure,” he says, no hesitation. “All you have to do is ask.”

*

“You’re taking my brother across state lines.”

Clarke doesn’t let herself look up. Sometimes, she feels like she spends most of her time not looking at Blakes because she’s afraid of what she’ll see.

But that might just be the dramatic side of her talking.

“I think we’re switching off driving shifts, so we’re really taking each other across state lines. I’m not doing all the work.”

There’s a long pause, and Clarke still doesn’t let herself look up. Finally, Octavia says, “You don’t know what it was like. After you left. He was in such shitty shape, and you abandoned him.”

“I know.”

“You don’t get to hurt him like that again. You don’t get to come back into his life and make him think you care about him again and–”

“You think that’s what I want?” she snaps. “You think I liked hurting him? If I could go back–I was fucked up, and I made bad choices. You don’t have to tell me that. I know, okay? And that’s not what this is.I never want to hurt him again. I didn’t want to hurt him the first time. So I’m not going to–” Octavia is staring at her, and she realizes all at once what she saying.

The silence drags, and then Octavia nods and says, “Okay. Have a good trip.”

It leaves Clarke off balance, and part of her wants to chase Octavia down, tell her exactly how much she’s not interested in hurting Bellamy, but–honestly, that’s the kind of speech she should be giving _him_ , not his sister. And it’s maybe not the best idea to do it when they’re stuck in a car, but–they have to do it sometime. And Octavia did give her the opening.

“Your sister yelled at me,” she says.

He glances over, smiles with half his mouth. “Yeah, she mentioned.”

Even though she was planning it, she still has to take a second before she goes on. “I was expecting you to want to know. You always–I don’t know. You’ve never let me off the hook easily, so I figured you’d make me tell you exactly why I left. Give me a chance to explain.”

“I figured I already knew,” he says, voice a little rough. “You’d reevaluated your life after all that shit and figured out you didn’t want me in it. I had all this baggage of my own and–” He trails off, and all she wants to do is kiss him and tell him he’s everything she’s ever wanted. Because–he is. Somehow, he still is. “It always felt like a minor miracle you went out with me as long as you did,” he says, before she can do anything ill-advised. “I wasn’t that surprised when you left.”

“Oh,” she breathes. It makes sense, but at the same time, it’s completely fucking unbelievable. “Yeah, no. That’s not–that wasn’t it at all.”

He’s quiet for long enough she starts getting scared, and then he says, “So tell me.”

“I was just so–I felt so shitty. About my dad and Professor Sydney and everything. I felt like I’d fucked everything up. And you were there, taking care of your sister, working so hard, and trying to make me feel better on top of everything. And you would have, you know? You always–” He breath catches on the memory, and that’s the whole problem, honestly. She remembers it being so good, and these last few months, she’s sure it _was_ that good. He really was so good for her, and she threw it away.

He pulls into the right lane, checking his blind spot, like he’s ready to stop any time, and she feels herself smiling, somehow. “This is what I’m talking about. You always make me feel better. You always take care of me. And I didn’t think I deserved it.”

He pulls over, says her name, and that’s it. She’s in his arms, and he’s rubbing her back, soothing her, making her feel better just because he exists. The fact that Bellamy Blake is in the world and somehow doesn’t hate her in spite of everything is–it’s just too much to even think about.

“This is exactly what I’m talking about,” she says again, sniffling. “How come I’m the one being an asshole and I’m getting comforted instead of you?”

“You broke up with me so I wouldn’t make you feel better. It sucked, but–it’s been ten years, and you’ve been feeling shitty about it the whole time. You deserve a break. You deserve to feel better.”

She’s not sure that’s true, but she _does_ feel better. Whether she deserves it or not. “I needed to hurt myself. And hurting you was the worst thing I could possibly do.” She lets out a shaking breath. “I’m so fucking sorry, Bellamy.”

“Okay.”

She laughs. “Okay? That’s it?”

“I forgive you,” he says, and kisses her hair, and Clarke lets herself think–he doesn’t have to hurt her, and she doesn’t have to hurt him.

She thinks they could make each other feel better again. She wants to try.

And she thinks he does too. That’s the best part.

*

Honestly, it is actually ridiculous, to be dealing with her stupid _feelings_ in the midst of breaking the most important case of her life, but Wells brings it up, and she can’t even blame him. Because she did drag her ex-boyfriend down to his place to research his dad and her mom’s corruption.

“I’d say I can’t believe you’re back with Bellamy,” he says. “But that makes total sense. I guess I’m a little surprised he’s back with you, but–you were pretty fucked up. I’d be mad if he held it against you for the rest of your lives.”

“That’s not what’s happening. We’re friends again, that’s all.”

“Doesn’t look like that’s all you want.”

“Of course it’s not what I _want_ ,” she tells him, and she hears–a sound. Like short, very soft gasp, and her heart stops, and then beats wildly. Bellamy’s listening. He heard that, and–maybe she’s kind of a coward, doing it like this. But it’s so much easier. “But–it’s what he wants that matters. I’m the one who broke it off, I can’t just–I’m a dick if I’m like, oh, I was fucked up ten years ago, but now I’m better, sorry about leaving you, take me back. That’s not fair to him.”

It’s true, but it’s also not really why she hasn’t said anything. It’s easier to figure out how to say it to Wells.

“Bullshit,” he says, and she smiles. “You broke it off, he’s not going to know you regret it if you don’t tell him. How’s he supposed to know you’re still interested?”

“From what I’ve heard, _everyone_ can tell,” she says, truthfully. But–honestly, she thinks he had no idea. But he should now. “You should have heard his sister. He probably noticed too, and he’s just–hopefully only one of us is pathetic enough to have been pining for ten years.”

Wells rolls his eyes, and Clarke leans back over, doesn’t let herself glance back, doesn’t let herself check that he’s really there.

Luckily, she spots Kane’s name on one of the folders, holds it up for Wells. “Hey, here’s something about Kane Industries.”

And then Bellamy’s next to her, curious, and relief floods her. “What is it?”

“Not sure,” she says, with a smile. “Let’s find out.”

*

She doesn’t even have to wait long, and it’s honestly incredible. All she had to do was _ask_ , and he’s hers again. He still wants her too, and she can still have him. It’s not like one weekend is enough to actually solve every one of her problems, but–she had a really bad few months ten years ago, and it fucked her up for a long time. She could have been happy with Bellamy just forgiving her, with just the knowledge that she couldn’t have done anything to prevent her father’s death.

But she wakes up the morning he’s going to expose her mother’s crime in bed with his arms around her, feeling safe and warm and loved and perfectly happy for the first time in what feels like forever, and that’s–

Okay, honestly? It’s probably pretty fucked up, objectively speaking.

But she doesn’t care. Once she turns her stupid alarm off, it’s the best morning of her life.


	50. Even Though It All Went Wrong - Bellamy POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [book-pirate](http://book-pirate.tumblr.com/)! Original fic [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7968889).

“Hey, I need a favor,” says Miller.

Bellamy doesn’t look up from the shot he’s lining up. Pool is serious business, and Miller’s a shark. He pounces on any weakness. “If you want a kidney, you have to pay for it. My internal organs are basically my emergency funds, at this point.”

“I don’t need an organ. One of Monty’s friends is new in town and trying to meet new people. I said I’d try to find her someone for a double date. I’ve met her a couple times, she’s cool. I think you’d like her.”

He doesn’t scratch his shot, but it’s a close thing. “A date?”

“Yeah,” says Miller. “I know you’re busy, like, all the time, but you’ve finally got, like, two nights a week free, so if you come out with me you’ll still have the other night to hang out with Clarke.” He shrugs. “No big deal either way, but like I said, I think you two would have fun. Just let me know in a couple days so I can find someone else if you’re not interested.”

“Sure,” he says. “When is this?”

“Next week, probably. We’re flexible. Like I said, Harper’s new in town. No pressure, just–meeting new people.”

“On a double date,” he grumbles. Dates are _pressure_. That’s how dates work.

“We don’t have any parties coming up, so, yeah. Dinner. I’ll even pay for you.”

“It’s like _you’re_ my date.”

“You wish,” says Miller, and they move on from date talk to trash-talking, which is much more in Bellamy’s wheelhouse. But before they leave, he says, “Let me know about Harper,” and just like that, Bellamy’s stomach drops again.

“Sure,” he says, like it’s no big deal. “Will do.”

*

He thinks about it all the next day. Not so much this _specific_ date as dating in general, as a thing he could be doing with his life. It’s not like he’s exactly _against_ dating. He just never had time for it before, and it hadn’t occurred to him that he might now. But he does, right? Like Miller says, he has free time. He’s twenty-four, and he’d probably enjoy having a relationship. He’s heard sex is fun. Based on how his hand feels, he assumes it is.

But that’s the whole problem right there, right? He comes across as the kind of guy who has experience. People have been assuming he’s popular and has no trouble getting laid since high school, and he’s just gone with it. It’s easier to have people think that, because then they don’t ask questions. And he doesn’t have to talk about his family and his sister and his fucked up life. It was easy.

And this is, apparently, the point where it stops being easy and he needs to put in some effort.

So, as with most problems he faces, he goes to Clarke.

“I think I want to start dating,” he tells her that night. The plan was to hang out on her couch and continue their _Friday Night Lights_ marathon, but he figures they can take a quick break for him to freak out. That’s an important part of their relationship.

Clarke glances at him, expression unreadable. “Yeah?”

He sinks back into her couch with a groan. This is already awful. “I’m not doing anything else, right?”

“If you’re bored, you could just get a hobby.”

“Yeah, but–I should be dating, right?”

He can hear her shifting a little on the couch, getting comfortable. “Do you want to be dating? If yes, work on it. If no, don’t. Easiest flowchart ever. But just wanting to date isn’t a guarantee you’ll be able to,” she adds, thoughtful. “Look at Jasper.”

“It’s not just–” he starts, but he doesn’t really want to say it. He grabs his beer only to find he’s already drained it, and Clarke supplies hers so he can drain it too.

“That bad?” she asks, mild.

He closes his eyes, exhales. This is _Clarke_. She’s not going to judge him or be an asshole. Not in a bad way, anyway. She’s going to help. She always helps. “I’ve never dated before.”

She shrugs. “It’s not actually hard. I can give you some pointers.”

“Like–never,” he says. “Nothing.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“It is,” he insists.

“You want to go on practice dates?” she asks, which is not a terrible idea, but also not really the core of his insecurity.

“Kind of. But that’s not really–I’m not worried about the dates.”

“I feel like we’re getting farther away from the issue,” she says, and it just–it makes him feel so much _better_. Clarke understands him, and she wants to help. The least he can do is let her.

It still takes him a second. “I’ve never had sex,” he finally admits. “Which I know–fuck, it’s not like I want that to be a big deal,” he adds quickly. Most days, he doesn’t even think about it. It’s not something that seriously bothers him. But when he does think about it, it bothers him a little, and he hates that. “I don’t–it’s shitty and I don’t want to care, but I don’t know what to do with that.”

There’s a pause, and then Clarke leans into him, warm and close and comforting, and he lets himself lean back into her. “Okay,” she says, in her problem-solving voice. “You brought it up, so you want to talk about it. Give me some guidance. You know it’s not a big deal, I know it’s not a big deal, but we also both know why it feels that way. So I need to know what advice you need.”

She’s the actual best. “So do I. I don’t know. Miller asked if I wanted to go on a double-date with him.”

“And you don’t know?”

“I should, right?”

“If your best argument is that you should, I’m always going to say no,” she tells him, sounding amused. “Do you want to?”

“Fuck, I don’t know. I don’t care much about, like–this date. I have no investment in some random person Miller knows. But–yeah, I want to date someday. And I feel like the longer I go, the less–if I don’t know what to do with a date I don’t care about, what will I do with one I do?”

She straightens up, nods to herself, like she’s finally cracked it. Honestly, it would be great if she had, so fingers crossed. “Okay, so,” she says, “I think it’s actually easier. It feels harder, because you don’t want to fuck up, but when you’re invested, it’s–you worry about different stuff.”

“Great,” he says, dry.

She elbows him. “Going on dates just to go on dates sucks. Don’t do that.”

“And sex?” he prompts, when she doesn’t say anything about it. That really is his main source of anxiety. He’s always awkward in social situations, but he’s pretty sure people assume he has some idea what he’s doing in bed. If they bother to think about it. He doesn’t want to let anyone down or make an idiot of himself.

“You might meet someone who’s an asshole about it. But if they are, you dump them.” She taps his leg, considering, and he smiles. “I think you should go on the blind date,” she finally says.

“Yeah?”

“It’s probably going to bug you, so you might as well get the first date over with. You aren’t invested in her, so it can just be kind of–training wheels date.”

It’s so _Clarke_. All practicality, all the time. “That sounds so shitty,” he teases.

“It does,” she admits. “But just because you think it’s going to be terrible. But all you really have to do is go, have dinner with someone, make small talk, and go home. You’re going to be fine.”

“I hate small talk.”

“Then you’ll figure out dates suck and stop.”

“Great,” he grumbles, but he really does feel better, even if the whole thing is still stupidly stressful. But she’s probably right. Meeting Monty’s friend is very low risk, and neither of them is going to be invested in the whole thing. It’s a blind date, and as long as they end it on good terms, she’ll be happy. It’s not like she just wants a boyfriend; friendship would work for her.

So Clarke is right, like she usually is, and he’s overthinking things, like he usually is. So he gives her a squeeze and nuzzles her hair, for good measure. He doesn’t know what he’d do without her. “Thanks. For–you know.”

“Any time.” She settles more comfortably against his side. “Are you good? Crisis over? Can we watch TV?”

He has to laugh. “Sorry my personal issues got in the way of our binge watch,” he says. She nudges him, and he realizes she wants him to say it. “Yeah, I’m good. Really.”

*

Bellamy likes Monty, so it’s not surprising that he also likes Monty’s friend. Harper is perfectly pleasant, a nice girl with a good sense of humor, and if this hadn’t been billed as a double date, he’d probably be having a good time. Not that he’s having a _bad_ time, but Harper is flirting with him a little, and he’s mostly kind of internally flailing and hoping she doesn’t try to make a move on him, because he is on no level prepared for that. Not that he has anything against her, but–he’s not really sure how to go from meeting someone for the course of a meal and developing feelings for them. He doesn’t have a fucking clue what he’d be looking for, in an actual _relationship_. What does that look like? He doesn’t even know how to start.

Miller gives him a few odd looks, but that’s standard for Miller, and he doesn’t think Harper notices. It’s broadly successful, as first dates go. He thinks he’s less awkward than he would have been, doing this in high school, so at least there’s that.

“I had a really nice time,” she says, as they linger outside the restaurant.

“Yeah, me too,” he agrees, more because it’s polite than because it’s true. If he’d been able to turn off his brain for more than thirty consecutive seconds, he might have, though, so it’s not like it’s some huge lie or anything. He’s just shitty at this.

“I hope we get to see each other again. Monty says he and Miller do board game nights sometimes. Stuff like that.”

“Yeah, definitely. And I’m always looking for a museum buddy.”

Her smile dims a little bit, and he realizes that’s not something he would be saying if he was interested in another date. Which–he isn’t, so it makes total sense, but he didn’t really mean to tell her like that.

On the other hand, his alternate plan was probably to just never get in touch with her again, so this is definitely better.

“Yeah, I’ll let you know if I end up going anywhere.”

“Cool.” He gives her a hug, because it feels more awkward to _not_ hug her, and he’s on the train to Clarke’s before she’s even responded to his _can I come over_ text. She said she didn’t have plans tonight, and she knew he was nervous. She’s definitely going to let him come.

He doesn’t _plan_ the kissing thing. He honestly doesn’t. It’s just that it was nagging at him the whole night, this knowledge that Harper might try to kiss him, and if she did, he had no idea what he’d do. Which is _stupid_. Teenagers successfully make out. He should be able to. And he can’t stop worrying about it.

As with last time, Clarke is caught somewhere between supportive and incredulous, which is nice and stressful all at once. He knows she doesn’t care, but if _she_ can’t quite believe he’s this inexperienced, he has no idea how strangers will react.

“Have you never even kissed anyone?” she asks, frowning.

“No, I have. But it’s been, like–” He strains to remember. “Fuck, eight years? Spin-the-bottle at a party in high school.” He hit Roma Anderson and she pressed her mouth against his with a flirtatious smile that suggested she wouldn’t mind if they did it more.

He wouldn’t have either, but his mother decided that whoever was looking for them had found them, and they were packing up and moving the next day.

“Wow,” says Clarke, and he feels his neck heat up.

“I just–I never had _time_. It wasn’t a priority.”

“I’m not judging,” she says, shifting closer, nudging his shoulder. “Just–you’re so _pretty_. How could anyone resist you?”

It’s clearly teasing, but he gets what she means. It’s been his whole life like that, people just–sure. That someone like him must have done this before. Even _Clarke_ thinks that.. “Yeah, about that,” he says, slow. The idea has been forming in the back of his head, because he trusts her, and she’s the only one who _knows_. And she doesn’t think it’s a big deal. It’s _not_ a big deal.

“What about it?” she asks.

“Were you serious about practice dates?” he makes himself ask.

She looks dubious. “If you really think it’ll help.”

“No, not really. But, uh–” It’s fine. If she says no, she says no. She’s not going to stop being his friend or anything. “What about making out?”

They’re close enough he can feel the tension racing up her side, and the flood of regret is instantaneous. That’s a fucked up thing to ask someone. Dating is destroying his brain.

“Sorry, it was stupid,” he says quickly. “I shouldn’t have–”

Her response is just as fast, and it sounds honest. “No, I don’t mind. Just surprised. You–do you really want to?”

“Yeah. You’ll tell me if I’m bad at it.”

“You’re not going to be bad, Bellamy,” she says, like it’s actually unthinkable.

“Your confidence in me is appreciated but totally unfounded. Seriously, I was sixteen playing spin-the-bottle, I didn’t even use my tongue.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Yeah, but most people don’t actually have kissing lessons. They just figure it out.”

“And they’re supposed to be better at it by the time they’re my age.” It feels like a stupid argument to have, especially now that he’s thinking about it. It’s been so long, and Clarke is right here, close and smiling, apparently willing, and he doesn’t really want to wait. Not when he could just be kissing her. Clarke’s _definitely_ good at kissing. She’s had a few relationships since they met. She’s got to know what she’s doing. “Can we, uh–can I?” he asks.

He can see her throat bob as she swallows, shifts a little closer. “Now?” she asks.

“Carpe diem, right?”

She nods, just once. That’s how he knows Clarke has made a tough decision: the single, decisive nod. It’s a little weird that kissing him is that big a deal, but–nice, too. She’s not just writing it off as nothing. “Okay. Go for it.”

“Okay,” he breathes. He threads his hand in her hair, letting the soft, fine strands of it slide between his fingers, and then he presses his mouth against hers. She tastes like he’d expect, like her lip balm smells, and she makes a soft noise, moves her mouth against his when he doesn’t know quite what to do. He tries to mirror what she’s doing, his mouth caressing hers, and her hand comes up to cradle his neck, thumb stroking his jaw. It feels like it should be weird, but it’s mostly just nice, and when her tongue traces his lips, he opens for her without even thinking about it. The swipe of it is new and surprising, but far from _bad_ , and he mimics it again, trying that out too.

He realizes they’re actually _making out_ and pulls back, guilt flooding his body.

“Okay?” he asks.

It takes her a second to recover her voice, he’s pretty sure. Which is awesome. He totally took Clarke Griffin’s breath away. “Good instincts.” She pats his arm, strangely–familiar. After the kissing. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Cool. Thanks.”

“Did you want to kiss her?” she asks.

“Who?”

“The girl you went out with tonight.”

If he’s honest, he completely forgot about her, and he feels like an ass. But–he can’t imagine doing this with Harper. He’d be too nervous. “Oh. Not really.”

Clarke nods. “But next time you want to make out with someone, you can just–not worry about it. You’ll be fine.”

“Yeah,” he says. But it’s not really what he wants. He’d pulled back because he felt like he overstepped, but–if he _didn’t_ , he was honestly really enjoying himself. “Or we could make out some more. Just to make sure I’ve got the hang of it.”

“If you want,” she says, like it’s a great burden, but she’s smiling, and leaning in again, and the kiss this time starts off deep and wet and goes from there. He slides his hand up under the back of her shirt, tugging her closer, and she slides into his lap and doesn’t leave again until he realizes it’s getting late and he needs to leave.

They might never finish _Friday Night Lights_ , now that making out is on the table. But it’s really hard to be upset about it.

*

The thing is, dating is a _pain_. That’s why he never did it. It just seemed like so much work to _find_ a person he wanted to date, and then go out with them, to navigate his complicated schedule and his inexperience. And all of that still seems like a pain. He doesn’t know where he’d start finding someone to date.

He knows exactly where he’d start finding someone to make out with, because he already did. Clarke was willing, and he’s still willing, and it’s _distracting_ , knowing that. Every time he thinks about Clarke, he thinks about her in his lap, kissing him long and deep, and all he wants is to do it again.

And so he asks. It feels kind of reckless, like every time he brings it up, he’s getting closer to forever ruining his relationship with his best friend, but until that happens, his life is getting better and better. Because it’s not just that he’s–finally–finding out what the big deal about sex is first hand, it’s that he’s doing it with _Clarke_. Clarke, who knows that all this stuff is new for him, who tells him what he’s doing right and what he could be doing better, who curls up with him after and teases him when he hogs his sheets.

It’s hard to imagine anything being better than this, so of course he’s not looking for anyone to date. He has absolutely nothing to gain from dating, at this point. Any time he was dating, he could just be hanging out with Clarke instead.

In retrospect, he cannot believe he didn’t figure it out sooner. It’s honestly the most obvious thing in the entire fucking world. He adores Clarke, and if anyone had told him she’d be willing to date him–

Well, his entire brain probably would have fizzled and died, but just because there would have been so much pressure to do it _right_.

So maybe it’s just as well that he never actually thought about it.

The night it happens, the bar is decently crowded, and Clarke is chatting with someone when he arrives. Which–it’s not like it’s surprising for someone to be talking to Clarke. Clarke is hot and single and has every right to flirt with guys twice Bellamy’s size who could probably crush him without even noticing. There is, objectively speaking, nothing wrong at all with this picture.

Raven sees him and cocks her head, but he doesn’t respond, because his body is lit up with possessive jealousy, and it’s overriding all of his normal functions.

It’s just so easy to press up against her and kiss her cheek. She doesn’t like people hitting on her; he’s doing her a favor. Really. “Hey, sorry I’m late,” he says.

She relaxes into his slight embrace, settling in as if she belongs there, and it’s enough to clear some of the irritated haze from his brain. “This is Lincoln,” she says, smiling at the guy she was talking to. “He wanted app recommendations. Lincoln, Bellamy.”

The guy’s smile is friendly and not at all upset, and he leaves without any objections, which raises Bellamy’s hackles again. He _should_ be disappointed. Sex with Clarke is awesome. Lincoln doesn’t know what he’s missing. He’s just giving up on it without a fight.

Clarke raises her eyebrows, and he feels himself flush. He’s actually the asshole here, not Lincoln. “What?” he snaps, and she actually smiles.

“Bad day at the office?”

His shoulders slump. It _was_ a shitty day. He wishes that were the real explanation, but he runs with it for now. “I hate this job. I need to report them for labor violations, but I can’t until I get a new job.”

“More unpaid overtime?”

“I didn’t read the boss’s mind, so it was my fault.”

“Which means they don’t have to pay you.”

“That’s what I hear, yeah.” He clears his throat, rubs the back of his neck. He owes her _some_ explanation. “So, uh, I can go tell that guy I’m a dick, if you want to–”

“Just buy me a drink and we’re even,” she says, and he lets himself believe it.

But it’s still nagging at him, not just what he did, but why he did it. He was jealous and possessive, and he thinks of Clarke as–his. Which isn’t how casual relationships are supposed to work. And that’s something they’re going to have to talk about. No matter how much it sucked.

On their way back to his place, he says, “That was out of line. I shouldn’t have–it was out of line, yeah .”

Her tone is casual. “What was it, exactly?”

It’s a good question that he should answer honestly, but he settles on saying, “Being an asshole.”

“Why?”

“You know why,” he says, more because he hopes he won’t have to spell it out than because he really thinks she does.

To his surprise, she slides in next to him, twines their fingers together. They don’t hold hands much, and the relief of that support is instantaneous. They’re going to be fine. “I really need to hear you say it, though.”

Apparently, it’s going to go well. But he still–he needs a second to prepare himself. “Why do I have to say it?”

“Because every time I’ve rehearsed having this conversation, I can’t figure out how to start, so–”

He lets out a relieved, breathless laugh. “Oh. Okay, yeah, that helps.” He waits until they’re in the apartment, in private, before he admits, “Yeah. I thought you were–I was jealous. He was hot. I just thought about you–going home with him and having a relationship with him, and–fuck, Clarke. I really don’t want that.”

Her smile is so fucking _happy_ for the few seconds he sees it before the kiss. “You’re the reason I don’t date,” she murmurs.

He was going to kiss her again, but that stops him short. Clarke hasn’t been in a relationship since–he can’t even remember, off the top of his head. “You haven’t dated since Niylah,” he finally says, half a question. Maybe he’s forgetting someone.

But she blushes, looks away. “Yeah. That was when I–”

A _year_. Clarke’s been into him for a _year_. Into him enough that she’s been staying single.

She’s totally going to date _him_. And he doesn’t even have to worry about being bad at it. She already knows what she’s getting into. She’s happy with their relationship _and_ the sex and–him.

Clarke wants exactly what he can give her, and when he does kiss her again, she responds instantly and eagerly, grinning against his mouth.

“You’re making me feel so much better about this,” he teases, gentle. “I was just being an idiot tonight.”

“You were–” She protests. “You had a lot going on. Octavia and work and–”

“I would have made time,” he assures her, trailing his lips from her mouth to her jaw. “God, I wasn’t–I never thought you’d–” If it had ever occurred to him he had a shot, he would have rearranged his entire life just to get it. He would have made it work.

But they can make it work now.

“You’re a dumbass sometimes,” she tells him. But before he can even pretend to be offended, she adds, “I love you. Do you want to get dinner with me sometime?”

“Yeah. I need to get better at dating, right?”

She shakes her head. “You really don’t. You’re way ahead of me.”

“I can’t believe I came to you for help, yeah. But seriously, I have no idea how to be in a relationship, so–”

“You’re a natural,” she assures him. “We’ll be fine.”

“You do know what you’re getting,” he says. “You have pretty realistic expectations of how shitty I am at this.”

Clarke tangles her fingers in his hair. “Let’s see. Dating my best friend who knows everything I like in bed, is happy going out to bars with me or hanging out at home watching TV, and cares about me. You’re right, that sounds awful. Is it too late to get out of it?”

He laughs. “Too late, yeah. You told me you love me.” He tugs her toward the bedroom. “I love you too, by the way.”

“Cool,” she says. “Then I think we’re going to be just fine.”

It feels like an understatement; he’s never been so fine in his entire life. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I’m not worried.”


	51. The Princess There Is Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [spinningprincess](https://spinningprincess.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: Bellarke in Patricia Wrede's Enchanted Forest.

Bellamy Blake is not supposed to be a scholar.

He’s not supposed to be much of anyone, of course. He doesn’t fit anywhere special into any story he’s ever read, and he’s read a lot. He’s a an innkeeper’s son, and they rarely do anything noteworthy, aside from help princes.

If he’d been born decently, he might have been a prince or a knight, he thinks. Not to be conceited, but he _is_ decently dark and handsome, if not quite as tall as the heroic ideal. And he doesn’t have the best personality, but neither do most royals he’s met. But that doesn’t make him a hero, and he doubts he’d want to be one, either. Aside from having something to do, there isn’t much appeal to the whole thing.

Besides, he’d have to deal with princesses, and princesses are, not to put too fine a point on it, a pain. All royalty is. Princesses are always being kidnapped by dragons or put into enchanted sleeps or suffering from curses, and then princes have to ride off to save them, and they always think whatever they’re doing is the most important thing, and don’t care at all about the non-royal, non-chosen people they disturb with their quests and magic and stupidity.

None of which means he has any intention of spending his whole life standing behind the counter of an inn, listening to what other people have done. And since he has no interest in rescuing a princess, serving a king, or slaying a giant, he figures he might as well try to learn as much as he can.

Which is how he ends up going to the dragons.

From what he can tell, dragons get a bad rap, in the same way that all predators do. If dragons didn’t kidnap princesses, their entire society would fall apart, because kingdoms would actually have to negotiate all their marriage treaties, even for their youngest daughters who don’t have anything much to offer. And from what he’s heard from magicians and witches who pass through the inn, dragons really aren’t so bad, if you’re realistic about what you want from them.

And, most importantly, they have _libraries_. Tons of books they aren’t even using, most of the time. And all he has to do is persuade one that he would be a valuable resource. Which he thinks he could be. Dragons like having people to cook for them and clean for them, and he could do all that.

Or the dragons could eat him before he gets the chance to ask about it. But he’s really hoping they’ll give him a shot. He thinks he could do really well, taking care of a dragon. It would be like taking care of his sister was, only the dragon wouldn’t kick him in the shins when it got upset.

It’s definitely worth asking.

Obviously, everyone knows where the dragons are. If they didn’t, the princes would never be able to rescue the princesses from them. Bellamy’s mother’s inn isn’t far from their caves, and she keeps a list of which princesses are currently being held by which dragons in which caves, just so princes won’t waste their time going to the wrong place.

Which is why Bellamy knows that the dragon Murphy has been without a princess for a while, and probably could use some help around the cave. And he thinks it’s a service he could provide.

He passes a few knights and princes on his way, nods to them like he’s got the same goal they do of rescuing a princess, except he’s being an idiot about it, since he’s not wearing armor or anything, and no one seems to think it’s odd. Maybe peasant boys trying to prove themselves are a thing. He’s definitely read at least one story where that happens. Virtuous men getting rewarded for being good with princesses.

He’s not convinced he’s good enough to make that one work for him.

“No princesses here, go away!” barks the voice, when Bellamy makes his way into the cave.

“I’m looking for a dragon, not a princess!” he calls back. “I want a job!”

As he hoped, that gets the dragon’s attention. When he comes out, he’s large and green brown, with shrewd, narrow eyes. Basically what Bellamy would have expected, from pictures. “What the fuck do you mean, you want a job?” he asks.

“You don’t have a princess, right?”

“You wanna be a princess?” asks the dragon.

It hadn’t occurred to him, but he supposes it’s true, sort of. As far as the dragon is concerned. “I never want to get rescued,” he says. “I just want to cook and clean and get access to your books.”

“Oh,” says the dragon, to his surprise. “So you’re one of those princesses.”

“Uh, I’m an innkeeper’s son,” he says, slow. “But I’m pretty sure I could do all the princess stuff, if you want. Like I said, I just want to read books, and this is the only way I know how to get them. If you want to call me a princess for that to happen, that’s cool.” _Princess Bellamy_ sounds totally plausible. He kind of likes it.

“I guess it works out pretty well for Emori,” he says, like this means anything to Bellamy. “You can cook?”

“Cook, clean, basically everything. Like I said, my mom has an inn, so I have a lot of experience. And I know some Latin and–other stuff. I read everything I can.”

“And you don’t mind being a princess?”

“Nope. Not as long as you don’t mind that I’m not actually one.”

“Don’t give a shit, as long as you do all the princess junk. My cave’s a fucking mess. I’m Murphy. Come on.”

Bellamy’s not sure he’d say that working for a dragon is exactly like he expected, but it’s at least pretty fun. The first few days, he checks out Murphy’s lair, exploring and trying to get the place organized. Murphy is, as is turns out, kind of a pack rat, which means that, on the one hand, he has all sorts of cool shit, but it also makes Bellamy _twitch_ , because, fuck, he has all these old, rare books, and he is just not taking care of them at all.

So, really, it’s a good thing he’s here. He just wishes he’d thought of this sooner.

The kitchen is in even worse shape than the library, but that’s at least not personally offensive to Bellamy. It’s just kind of a pain. He’s a pretty decent cook, and Murphy has access to a lot of ingredients. He just doesn’t care about it.

After a week of Bellamy failing to find stuff he needs in the kitchen, Murphy finally sighs and says, “Whatever, Clarke can probably help.”

The name is vaguely familiar, but Bellamy can’t place it. “Clarke?” he asks.

“Emori’s princess. She’s a shitty cook, but she keeps trying. Come on. I haven’t seen her in a couple days anyway.”

No wonder it sounded familiar. Princess Clarke has been on the princess boards for a while–almost a year, if he remembers correctly–and no one ever seems to have anything to say except that her dragon is tough.

But outside the cave is a sign that says, _PRINCESS DOES NOT WANT TO BE RESCUED_ and then, in smaller print, _This means you, Finn_ , so he’s not convinced the dragon is the problem.

“I’m gonna go get laid,” Murphy says. “You can hang out in the kitchen.”

Bellamy blinks. “Seriously?”

“What, I’m not allowed to get laid?”

It’s more that it hadn’t occurred to him, but he also doesn’t actually want to think about how dragon sex works, so he lets it go. “How do I get to the kitchen?” he asks instead, and flees as soon as he gets the directions. At least Murphy warned him. That’s something.

The kitchen is bright and warm and sparkling, full of pots and pans. There’s a girl at the oven, pulling a very burned roast out.

“You must be Princess Clarke,” he says, since Murphy did say she was a shitty cook. And she does _look_ like a princess, apart from her outfit. Her dress is plain and practical, something one of the cooks at the inn would wear. But her hair is long and golden, and when she turns, her eyes are blue and her cheeks are rosy.

She’s also _pissed_. “Can’t you read?” she asks. “Princess does not want to be rescued, thanks.” Her eyes sweep up and down, taking him in. He’s dressed as simply as she is, no armor or weaponry, and he can’t imagine he actually passes as someone who’s here to rescue her.

“Bellamy,” he says. “I’m Murphy’s princess.”

To her credit, she doesn’t even blink. “I assume you’ve had some disappointed suitors.”

He laughs. “Not yet. Can I get one of those signs? I want one of the signs.”

“You can make your own,” she says. “I made mine.”

“Why?” he asks.

“Because I don’t want to be rescued,” she says, with a roll of her eyes. “Sorry, I sort of assumed it was obvious. Why are you a princess? Let me guess, an evil fairy heard your name and just assumed you were a girl, and it’s caused problems your whole life. I’ve had that the other way.”

He has to laugh. “That would be pretty cool, but not as far as I know. Honestly, I wasn’t trying to be a princess.”

“Neither was I,” she says. “I was just born this way.”

“And you don’t want to be one?”

“I wouldn’t mind being one if it wasn’t so boring,” she says. “That’s why I asked if Emori would abduct me. It’s a lot more interesting, being a dragon’s princess.”

“Yeah, that’s basically what I did. Except it’s a lot more interesting being a dragon’s princess than an innkeeper’s son. So I figured–” He gives her a wry smile. “I actually just asked if I could cook and clean for him and read his books. He was the one who said that made me a princess.”

“So now you’re a princess?”

“Now I’m a princess. And I wanted to borrow some stuff from you. His kitchen is a disaster.” He can’t help a smirk. “Not that yours isn’t, but his is a disaster because it doesn’t have anything, not because you’re in it.”

Clarke tries to glare at him, but she’s smiling too. “Shut up,” she says. And then, “What did you want?”

It’s natural for him and Clarke to become friends. He likes all the princesses well enough, once he meets them, but they’re all temporary. None of them but Clarke sees living with a dragon as a goal.

Clarke’s like him: she never wants to leave. And, honestly, once he learns more about her, he can’t even be surprised that she ran away to live with the dragons. All her suitors sounded boring. And awful. And not at all good for her. And living with the dragons is great. They get to read and learn magic and she’s even getting better at cooking. Sometimes princes ignore their signs and try to rescue them, and Bellamy either explains that he’s not really a princess, or he’ll pretend that he’s a prince who _already_ rescued Clarke, so the other guy can leave, because he has it covered.

It would be perfect, except for the part where _he’s_ kind of falling for her. Which isn’t even his fault. She’s smart and sarcastic and just as annoyed by the aristocracy as he is, if not more, because familiarity breeds contempt. But–he’s not royalty, and he’s not trying to rescue her. And he thinks she might, kind of, like him.

He’s hoping.

“So you just gave yourself to the dragon, right?” he asks.

They’re in the library, reading, and she has her feet in his lap. It’s warm and pleasant and he thinks she’s happy.

He knows he is.

“Yeah. Why?”

“That means you don’t need to be rescued.”

“That’s what I keep telling people.”

“But–you could be.”

She stiffens. “No. I’m not letting anyone rescue me. Why would I?”

“I’m just saying,” he says. “It would be easier if it wasn’t an option, right? No one would even try to rescue you, if you were, uh–if you’d already been rescued. It works every time we do it, right?”

“Yeah. It’s great.” She squints at him. “If you’ve got a point, get to it.”

“It would be a lot easier if you were just, uh–married,” he says. “I’m pretty sure. And it’s not like I’m doing anything else, so–”

She sits up, staring at him. “Bellamy.”

“I’m just saying,” he says, quickly. “It would be a lot easier for you. So–”

“Bellamy.” She’s laughing now, and the relief is so swift and sudden that he laughs too. “If you want to propose to me, you have to do better than that.”

“I don’t want to yet,” he says. “But–I want to start thinking about it.” He leans over and kisses her, and she tugs him closer, kisses back, still smiling.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” she murmurs.

“Good,” he says. “So–you can look forward to that. When we’re ready.”

She laughs and kisses him again. “Yeah. I am.”


	52. No Escape, No Change of Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [la-la-lara](http://la-la-lara.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: Percy Jackson Au where the 100 are halfbloods

The thing about a hero’s journey is that you take it alone.

Clarke always thought that was stupid, when it happened in books and movies. So _contrived_. So many stupid narrative choices made just to justify the hero being the only one to confront the villain at the end.

In her case, she only needs the one contrivance: there’s a prophesy, and it says she has to go alone.

“You don’t have to _go_ alone,” Bellamy says, arms crossed over his chest. It’s still strange, seeing him in purple. It suits him, just–he feels so far away. He always did like Rome better. He’s the ridiculous dork who named his sister _Octavia_. When he was _six_.

She really does adore him. And there’s a part of her that can’t help wondering if she’ll ever really get him back.

“What part of the phrasing was unclear to you?” she snaps. He’s not _helping_.

“You have to fight alone. I’m not going to be with you when you do the trials. But–I can be close, right?” He tries a smile. “What’s the official definition of _alone_? Is it like a restraining order? Do I have to be a hundred feet away at all times?”

Clarke finds her own mouth tugging up, because it always does. Bellamy’s the best at cheering her up, somehow, even though he is objectively terrible at it. But it works for them.

“You think I can’t handle it?” she teases.

To her surprise, his expression sobers, and her gut twists. He can’t _actually_ think that. He was only away for six months. He can’t have lost all faith in her. There’s no way he forgot she’s a daughter of _Athena_ , and she’s a fighter.

Before she can object, he says, soft, “I don’t think you need help. I just don’t want to leave you again. You think I can watch if I don’t do anything?”

“You just want to watch me fight a bunch of monsters?”

“Are you kidding? That sounds awesome. You’re acting like watching my–” He trips on the word, and Clarke’s heart lurches.

They haven’t really had the chance to talk about the two of them, with everything else going on. It’s hard to justify the _so, are we still dating after your whole disappearance/amnesia incident_ conversation when the world is on the verge of ending. And the world always seems to be on the verge of ending.

“Watching you,” he finally says, not looking at her. “Watching you fight monsters is basically my favorite thing.”

“Except for the part where I might die.”

“Except for that, yeah. But it’s badass.” There’s a pause, and then he raises his arm, hesitant, and Clarke curls into him. “I assume you wouldn’t like me going off on a quest alone either,” he murmurs.

“No. But I’d let you.”

“I’m letting you. You know I’m not trying to stop you. But–”

She can’t help it; she leans up and presses her mouth to his, and he makes a soft noise, slides his hand into her hair, kisses back warm and firm. They haven’t done this since he remembered her; she hadn’t really been _sure_. She still doesn’t know exactly what happened to him, these last six months. He had memories of a whole new life at Camp Jupiter, a life without her. A life he might have liked better.

He rests his forehead against hers when he pulls back, smiling soft and warm. “But I missed you.”

He didn’t remember she was gone. He wasn’t frantic with worry for six months like she was, and that hurts. But she does believe he missed her.

“At least you got to have amnesia,” she teases, and he laughs, kisses her again, soft.

“Yeah, it’s great. You should try it. Five out of five stars.”

She laughs, tucks her head against his neck. “You should tell me all about it. When I get back.”

“Yeah,” he says. “So–look forward to that.”

*

It’s not as if Clarke has never had her own quest before. They’re demigods; questing is what they _do_. It’s just that she _had_ her happy ending. They defeated Kronos, saved Olympus, and everything was good.

It seems unfair, that they have _another_ huge prophesy to deal with. That they have all this other stuff to do, when they should be training new half-bloods to take over for them.

Bellamy was the one who told her, before the last battle, that demigods don’t tend to get happy endings.

“They get victories,” he said. “But you keep going with any of those stories, and the best they can usually hope for is dying when a god still likes them, so they get to be a constellation. Which would be pretty cool, if you think about it.”

She smiled. “So, we’re going into an epic battle and might not survive, and your big inspiring speech is, _if you’re lucky, maybe you get a constellation_?”

“Fuck, no way.” He smiled, a little shy. “This one’s just for you.”

“I feel so special,” she said, but the joke fell flat.

Bellamy looked away, and she remembers so clearly the way her eye caught on the strong line of his jaw, the freckles she could just make out in the dark.

She’d thought he was a cocky, reckless dick, the first time she met him. She was sure he was going to get himself killed, for a start, and half the camp with him. But in that moment, all she could think was that she didn’t know what she’d do, if he hadn’t showed up.

She didn’t need him to be her _boyfriend_ , or whatever. She just needed him to be there.

“There’s, uh–fuck.”

“Wow. I hope that’s your speech for everyone.”

“Shut up.” He huffed. “There’s no good way to say, like–a love confession at this point would be really cliched,” he said, and her heart stopped. “So I was going to say–there’s nothing going on between me and Gina. She’s great, but–” Another huff, and he looked down at his hands. “Like I said. There’s no way to say that without basically just telling you how I feel about you. So it’s not nearly as smooth as I wanted to be.”

“Yeah,” Clarke said, her voice miraculously steady. “Honestly, this has been a disaster. You started with _as a mythology geek, I think we’re going to die_ and somehow got _less_ romantic after that.”

“Like I said, I’m saving the good speech for everyone else,” he said. “Anyway, I just–thought you should know.”

“Yeah,” she said again, and found his hand in the dark, squeezing his fingers. “You know, I used to be kind of pissed that you got a cabin all to yourself, but I think I’m going to like privacy. Assuming we live.”

His laugh was the happiest sound she’d ever heard. “Wow. Romantic and pessimistic. You’re so much better at this than I am.”

“Don’t die, and you can get better,” she said, and kissed him.

And it was better. It was great, for a few months. It was the happiest she’d ever been, until he disappeared without a trace.

It wouldn’t be bad, to be a constellation. But what she really wants is to survive her quest, save the world, and have a lot longer between the end of this quest and the start of the next.

Maybe even die old, in her bed. She doesn’t care how mythologically unrealistic it is. She thinks they’ve earned it.

And maybe they have, because she makes it through the trials. She solves the puzzles and tricks Arachne, and when Raven navigates the ship in to pick her up, she sees Bellamy on the deck, waiting for her, all messy hair and messier grin, relief written all over his face.

 _Fine_. They’re going to be fine. At least for today.

And then she feels the silk wrap around her ankle, the strange, sticky jerk of it, and she falls, scrambling for anything to hold on to, anything to keep her from being dragged down.

She doesn’t want to go to Tartarus when she _dies_ , let alone before then. If she’s going to go to a Greek afterlife, she thinks she’s earned the Elysian Fields.

Even if she did get cocky about taking out Arachne, apparently.

There’s nothing for her fingers to find purchase on, nothing to grasp. The tiles are too smooth, the grout too high for the grooves to catch her grip.

It occurs to her to call for help–the quest is over, after all–but her voice dies in her throat when she looks up and sees Bellamy in the same moment she feels his fingers clamp around her wrist.

“You did it alone,” he says, and shifts closer. “Hold on to me, okay? I’m going to try to cut the silk, I need both hands.”

“Do it fast,” she says, and holds onto him primarily because she’s pretty sure it’s the last chance she’ll get.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “I’d say the angle is bad, but–it’s not doing anything. I think the silk is–you probably need something special. My sword isn’t enough.”

“Probably.” She lets out a breath, and lets go of him. “Tell them I want a cool constellation, okay?”

She sees his eyes widen, and he scrambles to get her wrist again. “Fuck, I didn’t tell you to let go,” he says. “It’s just Tartarus. We’ll meet up with them when we get out.”

“Bellamy–”

“I told you,” he says, firm. “I’m not leaving you again.” She can see him swallow. “You did the quest. So–together.”

If it were him, she’d do the exact same thing, so she doesn’t know how to argue.

“We can be the same constellation.” She latches onto his wrist too, sure. “Together.”

*

After their first climactic final battle, Bellamy kissed her, which worked pretty well, because it was still new, and no one else knew they were dating yet. It was a nice, decisive statement, and something to celebrate.

The second time, he collapses next to her in an exhausted heap and says, “You know, I think at this point, even if we die in our sleep, we earned constellations.”

“ _Those Two Assholes Again_ ,” she says. “That’s what I want it to be called.”

“ _Let Someone Else Save the World For a Change_.”

“ _Attention Whores_.”

“Yeah, but in Latin. So it’s classy.”

The giggle she buries against his shoulder is slightly hysterical. “Perfect. That’s what I want to happen when we die.”

“Deal.” She feels the press of his lips against her hair. “Let’s not do that for a while. I’ll follow you into the Underworld any time, but–we could take a break. Go somewhere nice, for a change.”

“I thought heroes didn’t get to die happily in their sleep,” she teases. “They probably don’t get vacations either.”

“Probably not,” he agrees. “But we might as well try, right? See how it goes. I think we could handle being happy.”

She finds his hand and squeezes. “Yeah. Me too.”


	53. I'm the First to Get Trigger Happy timestamp: Mumble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [baobabsandbaobabs](http://baobabsandbaobabs.tumblr.com/)! Original fic [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6565198).

[Original fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6565198)!

* * *

 

Bellamy really didn’t want to fall for Clarke Griffin.

In general, he thinks falling for girls who hate him is a bad life choice. After all, they _hate him_ , and that’s a terrible basis for a relationship. Plus he was dating someone else when he met her, and he always has this weird, itchy guilt when he develops feelings for someone he met while he was in another relationship. Like Clarke was somehow a factor in him and Gina breaking up, even though she wasn’t. She was just a girl he saw a few times a week and–didn’t _like_ , not exactly. Not at all, at first. At first, she seemed like another privileged princess, and he was convinced when her and Lincoln’s gallery went belly up, she’d cut and run. Lincoln would be left high and dry, and Clarke would be fine because she was rich and didn’t have to care about any of this. She could go home and her mother would rescue her.

By the time he figured out it wasn’t like that, she already hated him, and by the time he figured out he really, really liked her, he also really liked winding her up, bickering, and generally being kind of an ass in her general direction. And he was pretty sure she liked it too, which just made the whole thing weirder. He’s honestly never considered himself an expert on interpersonal relationships; being so sure about what was happening felt like a trap.

Octavia told him he’d never gotten over the whole _pulling pigtails_ stage of flirtation, which definitely isn’t true. He and Gina were fairly normal. But Clarke brings out the worst in him.

It doesn’t actually stop once they start dating, either. Obviously, he goes from being a non-stop dick to a part-time dick, because a lot of the time they’re actually in agreement about things, and sometimes they’re making out or having sex, but the dumb arguments and irrational dedication to things that ultimately don’t matter are still a large part of their relationship.

He’s like ninety-percent sure he wants to marry her, at this point. Most of the time, he even thinks she feels the same. She loves winding him up, too.

Case in point: when she says, “You know, we should go see _Finding Dory_.”

It’s not an inherently provocative statement, but they’re naked and post-coital, which is Bellamy’s least favorite time to talk about children’s movies about fish. It just feels like a sign he’s going to hell.

“I know you already saw it with Octavia,” she continues. “But it feels like we should see it too, right? There’s an octopus. I’ve seen the trailers.”

It puts him in an awkward position, because Octavia dragged him to a midnight premiere of the movie, because she’s Octavia, and he’s sort of avoided talking to Clarke about it. Not because–it’s kind of weird. He has trouble figuring out when Clarke will find his nerd-rage endearing and when she’ll think it’s too much.

“There is an octopus,” he says, slow.

Clarke, of course, smells blood in the water. “Oh my god. Did you hate _Finding Dory_?”

“I didn’t hate it,” he says, and she grins and props herself up on his chest.

“You hated _Finding Dory_.”

“I had some issues with _Finding Dory_.”

“Because you’re a fish nerd.”

“Shut up.”

She presses her lips to his neck. “No way. I want to hear everything. Tell me all your issues.”

“Don’t you want to see the movie?” he asks, mostly as a stall tactic. “Do you want me to spoil everything for you?”

“That’s true,” she says. “I want to experience this live and in-person.” At his dubious expression, she grins and leans up to kiss him on the mouth. “It’s cute.”

“Sure.”

“It is!” She grins. “You definitely charmed me with all your octopus trivia.”

“Jesus, you have bad taste in guys. Is it better with girls? Should you just stop trying to date at all?”

“You’re very cute,” Clarke promises. “So we’re doing the movie, right?”

“Are you going to break up with me if I have objections to unrealistic cinematic fish?” he asks.

“Maybe we should watch _Finding Nemo_ first. To prepare ourselves.”

“I had fewer logistical issues with _Finding Nemo_ ,” he says.

“So, are you saying you don’t want to watch a cute movie and grope me?”

He groans and flops back onto the pillow, closing his eyes. “You’re going to give me fucked up associations with sex and Disney movies, and I’m gonna get arrested for public indecency at a movie theater someday.”

“That’s my master plan, yeah,” she agrees, snuggling into his side contentedly. “It’s a long con.”

“I knew it.” He pauses. “Obviously I do want to do that, yeah.”

She pecks his cheek, surprisingly chaste, given, again, how naked and post-coital they are. “Obviously.”

*

In theory, Bellamy doesn’t approve of talking during movies. Especially not in theaters. He thinks it’s rude and disruptive and generally a dick move, and not even the good kind of dick move that he likes.

Which is why it’s such a problem, because so many movies are objectionable in some way, and he is incapable of not pointing it out. It’s part of why he and Octavia only go to the movies together once a year or so, because they are truly a nightmareish combination. Octavia gets angry less than he does overall, but when she does, she’s much louder about it. Meanwhile, he just keeps up a steady, low-level stream of grumbling, and none of their friends want anything to do with them. Basically ever.

Luckily, he and Clarke have known each other for long enough that she was prepared for this, and she likes him enough that she finds it somehow sweet.

“Come on, you’re going to angry-mumble your way through _Finding Dory_. A heartwarming movie about talking fish. How is that not awesome? We were going to sit in the back row to make out anyway.”

“I’m seriously starting to get worried about your Pixar fetish,” he says. “What part of this movie are you expecting to find erotic? Like–why are you planning to make out? Which sea creatures are you into? I need a list.”

“I’m seeing it with you,” she says, with a bright, perfect smile, and–fine, okay. This is the best relationship ever. He really hopes he doesn’t fuck it up.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he mutters, and she laces their fingers together and tells him she’ll pay for popcorn.

It’s not like Bellamy didn’t like _Finding Dory_. It was a cute movie with a lot of good things going for it. It’s just that the part of his brain that is aware of _basic human logic_ had some serious issues with some of the plot points.

The best part (for certain values of _best_ ) is that the issues don’t kick in for a while, which means he lulls Clarke into a false sense of security without even meaning to. They can enjoy adorable baby Dory and heartbreaking family stuff that, admittedly, hits a little close to home for him, and Clarke takes his hand and squeezes, all warm support.

And then they start moving around in the aquarium.

“That’s not even _salt water_ ,” he mutters. “Seriously, you can’t just have animals leaving _the ocean_ and getting into cups. That’s not how fish work.”

Clarke giggles softly and squeezes his fingers. “This is what you were talking about?”

“I have some issues with the octopus too. I don’t like extreme camouflage. And it gets worse. There’s some stuff with a truck.”

“The filter stuff in the first movie didn’t piss you off,” she points out.

“They used logic to figure that out,” he says. “That’s different from _being in fresh water_.”

She laughs again, and he’s really glad they’re at a mostly deserted matinee showing. They’re keeping it down pretty well, but still. If there were anyone within ten rows of them, he’d probably offer to pay for their ticket or something to make up for the disruption.

He probably just shouldn’t be allowed to see movies in public. His non-stop angry mutterings during _Finding Nemo_ were at least just disturbing her.

His girlfriend thinks he’s cute, at least. She wraps both her arms around his and snuggles in close enough that she can hear him even when he’s being extremely respectful of other people, and that’s–

Well, that’s nice. The advantage of going out with someone who knows all of his worst habits and loves him anyway. Someone who knows all of his worst habits and is accommodating of them, even.

It means that he doesn’t even think about raising his volume when the fish _hijack a fucking car_ , which, he and Octavia nearly got kicked out at that part when they saw it.

“Breathe,” she says. “You can rant about it when we’re out. Save the minutiae for top volume, I want to hear it.”

She sounds so warm and affectionate that he does, finally, duck his head and press his mouth against hers, just once, quick. He doesn’t have a Pixar fetish, he just–

“I love you,” he murmurs.

Her smile is bright and perfect, even in the dark of the cinema, so he can’t even be nervous that he’s telling her he loves her for the first time during the infuriatingly unrealistic climax of _Finding Dory_.

“I love you too,” she says.

He frees his arm to wrap it around her, holding her close. “You know, I thought falling for a girl who knows how much of a dick I am was a bad idea,” he can’t help adding.

“I like dicks,” she says.

“Wow, that’s not a good thing to say during a Pixar movie.”

She buries her too-loud giggle against his shoulder, and then bites him gently. “Shut up, Bellamy. Don’t you know it’s rude to talk during the movie?”

He snorts, kisses her hair. He’s pretty sure they’re never going to be able to go to any showing of any movie with any number of people in it for the rest of their lives, because they’re clearly too obnoxious for anyone else to put up with.

But they like putting up with each other. That’s more than enough for him.


	54. Good Heart, Soft Touch, Fast Horse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [hart-and-friar](http://hart-and-friar.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: Bellarke & The Princess Diaries AU

It’s unfortunately one of the largest failings a queen can have, to not bear children.

“Yeah,” Bellamy says, when Clarke tells him as much. “But it’s not like you’re starting wars or appointing livestock to cabinet positions or anything. Historically speaking, you could be doing a lot worse.”

“As always, I appreciate your upbeat perspective. It’s still a huge problem.”

“ _It could be worse_ is upbeat. That way you know that if I ever tell you it couldn’t be worse, you’re really fucked.”

She has to smile. “Obviously.” The good mood doesn’t last, though, and she rubs her face. “If I get thrown out of power, then I’m really fucked, right? That’s the point of no return.”

“You’ll be fine,” he says. “It’s just, you know. The country. They’d definitely be fucked. You could take a break.” He pauses. “Scratch that, you definitely couldn’t. You don’t know how to take a break. But you could find a new job to consume your entire life.”

“I haven’t been dethroned yet,” she mutters. “I could still have you executed.”

“Like you’d ever find someone else to put up with you,” he shoots back.

It makes her smile, and she lets herself stop pacing and sit down next to him, leaning her head on his shoulder.

“We’re going to get through this,” he says, and he sounds so sure.

“We?” she asks. “It’s my problem. What are you going to do?”

She doesn’t mean it in an unkind way, so she’s glad he doesn’t take it like that. He just puts his arm around her and squeezes. “The same thing I always do,” he says. “Whatever you need.”

*

When Clarke was twenty-three, she married her best friend, which was a pretty good arrangement for everyone. He was a member of the nobility, and she loved him. She didn’t love him the way she would have liked to, but she loved him enough, and they were happy.

And then, well–they didn’t have children. And they kept on not having children, and they went to doctors, who told them that she was the problem, that she wouldn’t be able to produce her own heirs.

They’d been trying to figure out what to do about that when Wells died suddenly, and Clarke has had a year of mourning where no one was really asking questions like _what does this mean for our country, with its shitty archaic laws about how a queen must have an heir or a husband_? And the first few months, she really _was_ mourning. Just because she and Wells had been better friends than lovers didn’t mean they didn’t love each other.

But now, with only two months left before the Genovian parliament reconvenes to discuss succession, she needs to figure out what the fuck she’s doing.

The thing is, Clarke is, and always has been, a good ruler. She’s smart and capable and knows what her people need. Genovia is a small country without very much economic or political power, but Clarke’s been studying to be its leader for her entire life. The only reason she can’t be, the only reason she _isn’t_ , is that she’s a woman, and a woman is prevented, by her country’s laws, from ruling without a living husband, son, or father to support her.

Which means she has three options: marrying, abdicating, or attempting to lead a revolution.

Bellamy favors the last, but even he has to admit that, much as her country loves her, they probably don’t want to see a widow less than a year out of her marriage trying to incite them to overthrow her own government.

All things considered, marriage would be easiest. She is, after all, still fairly young. And not a bad prospect, aside from her inability to produce children. She’s thirty-four, wealthy, intelligent, and whoever marries her doesn’t even have to do anything, aside from being a trophy husband.

It’s just that she already married for her country. She’d always hoped that there would be a point, at some time in her life, when she _didn’t_ have to sacrifice every part of her personal happiness for her people.

“Have you considered just ignoring etiquette?” Bellamy asks.

“All the time.” She rubs her eyes. “But keep going. What did you have in mind?”

“Introduce the motion to have the law overturned now. Before the mourning period is over.”

“Not with Nia breathing down my neck. She thinks I’m one false step away from putting Roan in charge of the country, and she’s probably not wrong.”

“Much as I hate to admit it, the country could do worse than Roan,” he says, grudging. “Hell, if his mother was dead, I’d say you should just abdicate and give him the country.”

Clarke has to smile. “Really?”

“If they don’t recognize they want to keep you in power, they don’t deserve you.” There’s a pause, and Clarke can practically hear him debating with himself. “Besides, like I said, you could use a break. There are all sorts of cool places we could go.”

_We_ , Clarke thinks, and that’s the other issue. It’s one thing to not marry for love. It’s another thing be in love with someone else and marry despite that. It hadn’t been a problem when she married Wells; she hadn’t even met Bellamy yet. When he was promoted to palace guard, she was twenty-five, and she and Wells were past the part of their marriage where they thought they might ever be anything more than two good friends who had sex every few weeks in an attempt to reproduce.

Wells had thought it was _funny_ , when she started checking out the new guard.

She likes to think his progression through the ranks had nothing to do with her feelings for him, but she knows it’s not quite true. She didn’t recommend his promotions because she liked him, but she liked him for all the reasons he’s a good fit for royal security. He’s smart and capable and funny, and it’s never a chore to spend time with him. He has a good head for strategy and he’s fantastic at reading the situation, at getting a feel for people.

She’s never told him she’s in love with him, and she can’t decide if he knows. But he was too loyal to her and Wells both to ever say anything about his own feelings, if he has any for her. He’s never married himself, although he’s had girlfriends and boyfriends both. And he’s never discussed a future without her in it.

But he’s no one _important_ , as far as her country is concerned. He’s not someone a queen marries. He’s someone a queen rules.

“Are you saying I never take you anywhere nice?” she teases, mostly to distract herself from the way her stomach lurches not only at the thought of marrying him, but also marrying anyone _but_ him. “Because we’ve been to almost every country in the world.”

“Yeah, but you never go to all the historical sites I want to.”

“It would be impossible to go to all the historical sites you want to.”

“True,” he says. “So whenever I say it, I’m still right.”

“That’s a good workaround.” She sighs, closes her eyes. “If Roan wasn’t married, I’d just marry him.”

“Yeah?”

“He’s practical, he’s–” She makes a face. “I was going to say inoffensive, but that’s not really the word. I think he’d leave me alone and not care if I–”

He raises his eyebrows. “If you what?”

“I don’t think he’d care about anything,” she says, too quickly. It’s true, but–what she was really thinking was _fidelity_. Not that Wells cared either, but–it feels different now. It’s just been her and Bellamy for months now, and she doesn’t know how she’s going to give that up.

Bellamy must be thinking the same thing. “You know what I think?”

“Most of the time you won’t shut up about it.”

“I think you should be figuring out how to marry the person you want to marry, not figuring out how to get by marrying someone you don’t.”

“I think I should be thinking about the country first, and what I want second.”

“Fuck that,” he says. “Okay, not–look, Clarke. You’ve spent your whole life doing what’s best for your country, and I’ve spent a third of my life watching you do it. And now you’re beating yourself up over getting married when that won’t even make them happy, because you can’t have an heir, like that’s your fucking fault or something. So, yeah. I don’t think you should spend two months figuring out some noble to marry. I think they should be fucking thanking every star they’ve got that you’re their queen, and it doesn’t fucking matter how you get an heir.”

It’s what he thought when Wells was alive, she knows that. But he hasn’t said it since then. He’s been–polite.

“So you think I should just adopt a child?”

“That’s an option. Adopt a kid, revise the law, tell them you’re fucking done unless they admit you’re the queen no matter what and they should be grateful. Your parliament knows you’re the best monarch they’re getting. And they know they don’t want anyone else stepping up to fill the power vacuum.”

She lets out a breath. “I’d say I didn’t know you cared, but I knew.”

“I figured.”

“Adopting an heir seems really high pressure,” she admits. “Like–what if they don’t turn out well?”

He snorts. “Because if you produce a baby, you’re guaranteed to have it come out well,” he says. “Seriously, you roll the dice on every kid. As the only person in this conversation who’s actually raised a child, I can confirm you just do your best and hope she doesn’t get arrested too much.”

Clarke has to smile. “How is Octavia doing?”

“Not getting arrested too much.”

“Do you want to have children?” she asks. It feels like dangerous territory, but–they’ve been in dangerous territory. It’s just getting worse. “Or was she enough for you?”

“I wouldn’t mind having children,” he says. “Or, you know. Acquiring children. I don’t really care if they’re mine. I like all kids.”

She swallows. “Just in case you ever ended up married to someone who couldn’t have any of their own?”

“Just in case.”

She’d say she doesn’t mean to kiss him, but that’s not entirely true. She’s been meaning to kiss him for years. It’s been so hard, not kissing him. But she hadn’t known she was going to do it now.

His hands tangle in her hair, almost instantly, and she presses closer, can’t get enough. It’s been so long since she kissed someone just because she wanted to, not since college, and he’s so–

“Bellamy,” she breathes.

“Yeah,” he says, and trails his mouth down her neck. “Seriously, you deserve to be selfish, Clarke. You deserve to be happy.”

“You do too,” she says, and he laughs.

“Yeah, I’m not the problem here,” he teases. “You want to marry me, just say the word. I’m always willing.”

“It’s not that easy,” she says, but she’s already kissing him again. Now that she’s started, it’s not like she’s going to be able to stop.

“I know,” he says. “But I think we can work something out.”

*

As it turns out, there are a lot of parts of Genovian law with restrictions on succession and how heirs work, but none of them define the heir as the Queen’s biological child. There’s some argument that it’s an oversight, but, well, Clarke wouldn’t mind having a child, regardless. Bellamy’s good with children. He should definitely have one. If she’s not allowed to remain ruler of Genovia, they’ll still be happy they adopted.

There’s also nothing about what the queen’s _second_ marriage is supposed to look like. Clarke married a perfect gentleman, and had a great, if not particularly passionate, marriage, for eleven years. She was happy, and she did everything her country said would be good for her.

Now it’s time for her to do what she thinks will be good for her country. And, as a bonus, it’s good for her too.

“Just until I start the coup and seize power,” Bellamy says. “Then everything’s going to suck for everyone.”

She leans up for a kiss; she can’t stop smiling. They’ve got a baby lined up for adoption and a wedding date. It’s everything she never let herself want. “Well,” she says. “As long as you’ve got a plan.”

“Oh yeah,” he says, smile just as wide. “I’ve got it all figured out.”


	55. So Be Good for Goodness' Sake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [macerelle](http://macerelle.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: Bellarke and 'being camera shy plus some unexpected hand holding'

The first time Bellamy Blake meets Clarke Griffin, he’s eleven and she’s seven and absolutely terrified of the mall Santa.

Bellamy’s been kind of worrying about the Santa thing, if he’s honest. O wanted to come to the mall to inform Santa he didn’t get her what she wanted last year, and tell him to do a better job this year. Which is not going to work, because their family doesn’t have any more money this year than last year. As a kid, Bellamy sort of got that Santa was never going to get him a pony, but Octavia thinks she deserves one, and if she doesn’t get one, she’s going to be an asshole in the coming year.

So, yeah. He’s possibly looking for some kind of distraction when he spots the girl alone in line, looking like she’s about to cry or bolt, he can’t decide which.

“Stay here, okay?” he tells Octavia, and goes over to the girl. “You okay?” he asks.

She startles, and then glares with fierce blue eyes. “I’m _fine_.”

“Yeah? So, you want to get your picture taken?”

“No,” she says, too quickly. “It’s _weird_. If I’m not supposed to talk to strangers, why would I sit in one’s lap and get my picture taken?”

“It’s not a stranger,” he says, trying not to smile. “It’s Santa.”

“Santa’s not real. Mom just wants the picture for her Christmas cards.”

“Where is your mom?”

“At work. My nanny’s supposed to be watching me, but her boyfriend works at the coffee shop so she said I could wait by myself.”

“Huh. Well, I’m here with my sister. You want to wait with us instead?”

“I don’t know you either,” she says.

“I’m Bellamy. My sister’s Octavia. She wants to tell Santa he’s a sham, so you guys should get along.”

“She thinks he’s real?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure. I think maybe she just wants to yell at someone.”

The girl giggles at that, and he smile. They chat easily in line, getting through introductions and family facts, but he sees the way she lags when Octavia goes up, like she’s still nervous, and he impulsively reaches down for her hand. He does it with his sister all the time, and Clarke’s about his sister’s age. It’s weird because they just met, but–she seems like she could use some back up.

“I really don’t like pictures,” she admits. “Especially with strangers.”

“You want me to come?” he asks.

She perks up. “Would you?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Mom’s going to hate that. She’s not gonna send out a holiday card with you in it.”

“Why not?” he teases. “What’s wrong with me?”

Clarke grins and tugs him toward the Santa. “Nothing. But all her friends would want to know who you were and why you were with me.”

“I’m your friend Bellamy,” he supplies, and she smiles.

“Yeah,” she agrees. “You’re my friend Bellamy.”

He gets a copy of the picture and hangs onto it for no real reason, except that it was kind of a nice memory. Clarke was cool, for a seven year old, and it made him feel kind of like a superhero, helping her out. And it’s a nice picture. He doesn’t have a lot of good pictures of himself. It never seems worth it to buy them.

But he doesn’t figure he’ll ever see her again, and so it’s a genuine shock when he does. It’s fourteen years later, at the _same fucking mall_ , somehow. He’s looking for last-minute Christmas presents when he spots a girl crying at the Santa, and he hears a pretty blonde elf ask, “Do you want me to go with you?”

He’s not sure why he notices in particular, except that he remembers doing the same thing, and he watches as the elf takes the girl’s hand and guides her toward Santa. She leans in next to the girl, her smile bright but clearly a little uncomfortable and–familiar.

She looks so familiar.

“Excuse me,” says a woman, pointed, and he realizes he’s a twenty-five-year-old guy staring at a bunch of kids going to meet Santa, and he at least moves so it looks like he could plausibly be in line. The elf looks to be about Octavia’s age, with her hair in two neat blonde pigtails under her hat. She escorts the girl back to her waiting parents and then meets his eye, and suddenly he figures it out.

Somehow, he knows. He recognizes her. It’s Clarke.

Which doesn’t actually help that much. After all, it’s been fourteen years since he saw her. She was _seven_. She probably doesn’t have the picture anymore, or even remember him. She’d almost certainly be creeped out if he went and said hi. But–he kind of wants to anyway.

**Me** : What do you do if you see a girl you met once when you were eleven at the mall

**Miller** : I would never be in that situation  
Everything about it is unrealistic

**Me** : How creepy am I if I say I took her to see Santa when she was seven?

**Miller** : Like a twelve  
On a scale from one to ten

**Me** : Just checking  
Thanks

He’s thinking about texting his sister, but she’ll be even less helpful than Miller, so it’s a relief when he hears someone demand, “Do I know you?” and looks up to see Clarke squinting at him.

“Uh, not really? But kind of? Assuming you’re Clarke.”

Yeah,“ she says, slow. “And?”

“Yeah, uh–sorry, this is really weird.”

“You’re not making it any less weird,” she points out, and that makes him smile.

“Okay, uh–When I was eleven, I saw you here in line, and you didn’t want your picture taken with Santa, so I went with you, and you thought your mom was gonna be pissed some random kid was in your photo.” He pauses. “Unless you’re a different Clarke. In which case, my mistake.”

She’s staring at him in open amazement, and it’s doing weird things to his heart rate. She’d be twenty-one now, and–she’s cute. Really cute. She’s wearing fake elf ears and has a mole on her lip, and he kind of wants to find out when her shift is over.

Assuming he’s not coming off as a lunatic and/or stalker.

“Bellamy, right?” she asks.

He grins. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“Holy shit. Wow. I actually–” She shakes her head, laughing. “My mom redid my room back in October, she had this giant box of shit for me to take. I found that picture in there.” She bites her lip on a smile. “I actually sent it out as my Christmas card to my friends this year.”

He laughs too. “Seriously?”

“It’s funny, right? We’re tiny and cute and all my friends figured we were, like, BFFs, and I got to tell them you were just some random kid who noticed I was freaking out and came to rescue me.”

“Wow, that honestly sounds a lot better than me being your BFF. I get to be the hero.”

She smiles. “I really did appreciate it, though. I hated going to see Santa and after that my mom stopped making me.”

“So, uh, I gotta ask–how do you go from hating Santa so much you can’t see him without a random stranger for backup to working as an elf?”

“I got older and needed a part time job. I compromised all my morals basically immediately.”

“Yeah, okay, I get that.”

“Speaking of which, I need to get back. But–is it weird if I kind of want to talk to you? Like–grab coffee or something? I feel like we should catch up, even though we literally know nothing about each other.”

He grins. “Yeah, no, I was thinking the same thing. When’s your shift done? I have to buy presents.”

They meet up at Starbucks at five, and he discovers that her last name is Griffin, her family is stupidly rich, and she’s at college in New York.

“Huh,” he says. “I’m actually in New York too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I work at the Met and I’m taking some night classes to get my degree. I’m just home for a few more days and then I’m going back to the city.”

“That’s awesome,” she says.

“Which part?”

“All of it.” She sips her coffee. “You had a little sister, right? Is she in college?”

“Yeah, she’s a sophomore at the University of Virginia.”

“Cool.”

They lapse into silence, and he wonders if there’s anything good he can say to resurrect the conversation. Or at least revitalize it. He doesn’t tend to meet a lot of people he really wants to talk with, but–he’s always had a good feeling about Clarke. Right from the beginning.

“So, did you get your picture taken?” she asks.

“What?”

“With Santa.”

“Uh, no. Because I’m twenty-five years old.”

“Uh huh. What I’m hearing is _I need a buddy to take me to see Santa, because I’m scared to go alone_.”

“Wow. You’re good. That’s exactly what I was secretly saying.” He gives her a grin. “Isn’t he a stranger? Don’t you not talk to strangers?”

“I _work here_ ,” she points out. “I have ever December since sophomore year of high school. Paul really isn’t a stranger.” She offers her hand. “Come on. We need a new picture, right? The old one’s so outdated. You wear glasses now. Everything’s changed.”

She’s joking, but when he takes her hand, it really _does_ feel like that. Like suddenly, everything in his life is brand new.

It feels like the start of something.

They take a picture, and Clarke jots her number on the back of his copy, and he puts his number on the back of hers. She texts him when she’s back in New York, and he asks if she wants to come to a New Year’s party with him, and it’s just–

It’s so much easier than he imagined it could be. It’s never been easy like this before.

The next year, they get their picture taken with Santa early, so they can use them for updated Christmas cards, and the year after that, he brings a ring with him.

“I can’t believe you proposed to me in front of _Santa_ ,” she says. But the ring is on her finger, and she hasn’t stopped smiling.

“Come on, he’s been there for every stage of our relationship. It would have felt weird to propose to you without him.”

Clarke laughs. “Okay, but I’m drawing the line at whoever officiates the wedding dressing up as Santa.”

“Are you sure? Because Miller would totally do it, and it would piss off your mom.”

She opens and closes her mouth, and then settles on laughing and kissing him. “I knew there was a reason I said I’d marry you.”

“My weird friends and talent for annoying your mother?”

“That’s exactly it.” She grins. “Merry Christmas, Bellamy.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “It’s looking like a good one.”


	56. Bravenlarke - Kiss Me Quick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [catja](http://catja.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: princess mechanic (or bravenlarke) + code name verity please! except fluffy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went with Bravenlarke.

Raven didn’t have much trouble disliking Clarke’s fiance, sight unseen. She imagined someone like Clarke, an aristocrat, some rich, stuck-up academic with no understanding of the world. Clarke’s the first titled person she’s ever met, to her knowledge, and everything about their relationship feels like a fluke. Bellamy–and what a pretentious name, too–couldn’t possibly be like Clarke.

And when Raven meets him, he isn’t.

“He’s a pilot, like you,” Clarke explains, by way of convincing her. “You’ll like him.”

Raven couldn’t say she wouldn’t, but she was planning not to. But she loves Clarke, and Clarke loves Bellamy, so she’s going to be nice. Even if he can’t deserve her.

The boy waiting for them is a few years older than they are, with messy, jet-black hair and skin too dark for his bloodline to go too far back in England. He’s bouncing on his feet, apparently nervous, and when he sees Clarke, Raven doesn’t know how to dislike him anymore, because his smile is wide and open and so unreservedly happy that she knows they’re on the same side.

Still, when he bends down to kiss her, brief and chaste and completely unobjectionable, Raven’s stomach still lurches.

“Hey,” he says, just to Clarke, and then he turns his attention to her. “You must be Raven.”

“And you’re Bellamy,” she says. His handshake is firm and solid, and his hands feel like he’s been working with them for a long time, for all Clarke said she met him at Oxford.

“Nice to meet you.” She doesn’t think it’s just her imagination, the way he’s sizing her up too. The way he isn’t sure what to make of her either.

She’s sure Clarke notices too, but Clarke doesn’t mention it. She slides one arm through Bellamy’s arm and the other through Raven’s and says, bright, “Okay, none of us has anything to do for the rest of the afternoon. Cinema?”

To Raven’s surprise, Bellamy catches her eye, quirks his mouth in fond amusement and rolls his eyes. It’s a gesture that shouldn’t make her like him, sharing a joke at Clarke’s expense. But that’s not what it feels like.

It feels like he’s glad he’s got someone else who gets it. Someone who loves Clarke as much as he does.

Raven smiles back. She can’t help it. “Yeah, sounds fun.”

*

It feels weird, saying that Clarke is in more danger than the rest of them, but she thinks everyone is agreed on that. Raven’s probably the safest, if you for some horrible reason wanted to make a contest of it. She’s a pilot who ferries their own planes. She never even leaves the country. Bellamy’s in combat, and that’s scary, but Clarke–

Raven doesn’t know exactly what Clarke does, but that makes it feel more dangerous. She _knows_ what she does and what Bellamy does.

She knows that Clarke goes places and speaks German. She won’t see Clarke for weeks, but she’ll get letters with the return address blacked out, with words missing, and she doesn’t know how she’d even find out, if something happened to her.

Except she does. Bellamy is her fiance, so they’d inform Bellamy, and Bellamy would inform her.

“Do you know what she does?” she asks him one night. She was stranded in Scotland by the weather, ended up being close enough to Clarke’s home–Clarke’s _castle_ –that it was the place she went, even though she’d never been. Clarke’s mother had been on her way out, but she said Bellamy was there, and she could help him with the kids.

She hadn’t expected it, but she’d been grateful. The castle was full of refugees, and Bellamy’s apparently good with kids, with a little sister of his own he half-raised, and it was nice, to sit at the table and watch him grumble at them for talking with their mouths full.

But now it’s dark and quiet, and the castle feels too full of ghosts.

“About as much as you do,” he says, and her chest warms up. He’s sure they know the exact same amount.

Maybe he notices that too, because he clears his throat, a little gruff. “Sorry, I don’t like thinking about it.”

“I know.”

“Yeah. I, uh–Lady Abigail says it’s improper for me to sleep in Clarke’s room, so you can take it.”

Raven snorts. “Where do you sleep?”

“Her brother’s.”

She pauses, but–she’s curious. And she never knows how to ask Clarke about him. It’s easier to talk to him about her; she’s the thing they have in common.

Or, the thing they had. Now that she’s talked to him more, she knows she and Bellamy have a lot more in common than she and Clarke do. His own mother is a seamstress, his father dead before he had a chance to remember him. He knows what it was like, the son of a shopkeeper who grew up looking nothing like his friends.

Sometimes, it feels like she knows him better than she knows Clarke. In a nice way.

“How often do you come here?” she asks him.

He smiles with half his mouth. “Now? Whenever I’m grounded nearby. It’s about the only thing the war made easier.”

“I still don’t get how you two ever got engaged,” Raven says. “I know I never would have talked to her, if the war wasn’t happening.”

“Maybe she would have come and bought a bike,” he teases. But his face lapses into memory, the small, fond smile she thinks of as _Clarke’s_ playing on his mouth. “I worked my arse off to get a scholarship to Magdalen, and I got there. Clarke was at Somerville, but we had some friends in common, so–” He grins. “I was in my third year when I met her. I was on a tear about how the aristocracy was an outdated, archaic institution, and my friend just cleared his throat and said, _And this is Bellamy Blake. Bellamy, Lady Clarke Griffin_.”

Raven laughs too. “Really?”

“I honestly thought I was going to get beheaded,” he says, grinning. “But she just–you know that smile when she wants you to know she _could_ be doing something bad?”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t yet, so I had no idea what was going to happen. But she just said, _Please, I agree, keep going_ , and–you know how it is.”

He says it so _easily_. As if the process of falling in love with Clarke requires no explanation. As if she should get it. And it’s not that she _doesn’t_. It’s that she doesn’t quite know how to process that Bellamy knows that and doesn’t mind.

“She talked down an enemy pilot,” is what she says.

He grins. “Yeah, she was so proud,” he says. “She wrote me a letter about it and half of it was blacked out. But I don’t know your side.”

“I was still on radios back then. They didn’t think they needed girls working on the planes.”

He rolls his eyes. “God forbid they use their resources well, when there are women to protect.”

“I was the one who got the call, and she was the one who showed up when I said I needed someone who spoke German. And then we just–” She shrugs, because she can’t quite explain it. “You know how it is,” she settles on.

“Yeah,” he says. “Goodnight, Raven.”

“Goodnight.”

*

It’s a joint effort by Bellamy and Clarke that gets her into France. Clarke needs a ride, and Raven is her pilot of choice. It always makes her gut twist, the way that Clarke picks her, even when Bellamy is an option. And, as always, the way Bellamy doesn’t seem to mind at all.

She doesn’t mind him either. Not even a little.

Clarke’s assigned pilot doesn’t show up, and she still needs to get to France. It’s not hard for her and Bellamy together to make the argument, Bellamy apparently against the idea, letting Clarke talk him around, and once he’s been convinced, it’s hard for anyone else to come up with objections. He’s already fought for their side and lost.

Raven’s never flown out of the country before. She tagged along with another pilot, just once, got to see France from the air, but she’s never done it herself before, and she feels like electricity is coursing through her, excitement pulsing through every vein. She’s taking her best friend to France.

Bellamy’s the one who sees them off, and he leans down to kiss Clarke in the dark. Raven looks away, to give them privacy. Even though she can barely see. She doesn’t know how to witness that.

“Come back safe,” he says.

“You too,” says Clarke.

“I’m not going anywhere until morning.”

“When you go, then.”

“I will. I love you,” he adds, and Raven’s heart twists. It’s rare, that she feels excluded, when she’s with them. It’s exactly what she was afraid of, when she heard Clarke had a fiance. That she would be left behind. That she could never be–

“I love you too,” says Clarke, and then Bellamy’s in front of Raven.

“You come back too,” he says, and she can see him studying her in the dim light of the runway. Her breath catches as he leans down, and her eyes flutter closed again.

The kiss is soft and quick, just the dry press of his lips, but–it doesn’t feel ambiguous. It doesn’t feel friendly.

He watches her for another second after he pulls back, and then he nods. “See you when you’re back,” he says, and he’s gone.

Clarke waits until they’re in the air and underway to say, “I can’t believe he kissed you before I did.”

Raven’s heart flips, and she takes a steadying breath before she says, “Me neither. You’ve had way more chances than he has. I don’t know what your excuse is.”

She hears Clarke’s soft, relieved laugh. “I felt so guilty,” she admits. “When we met. Because–you know I love him. And I thought that was it. Once you love someone, that’s all. You love one person, and you won’t love anyone else. That’s how it’s supposed to work, right? If it did, I guess fidelity would be easy,” she says, with a smile. “But–it’s not like that.”

“Yeah?” Raven asks. Her voice is steady. “What’s it like?”

Clarke presses her lips against Raven’s jaw, firm and decisive. “Come back safe,” she says. “And I’ll tell you.”

*

It’s the closest either of them ever comes to not coming back. The plane fails, and Clarke does kiss her before she parachutes out, firmer and deeper and longer than Bellamy did, because this kiss isn’t a promise; it’s a farewell.

It’s a bad few weeks, not knowing if Clarke is alive, not knowing when she’ll be able to get out of France. Bellamy’s shot down the first week, which doesn’t make her feel better, except the two nights she sees him, waiting for their pickup, sitting huddled together, leaning on each other for support until they have to let go.

But they do make it. Raven fires the shot that saves Clarke from being carted off to Germany, and Bellamy’s the one who shows up to take them back, glancing back every few seconds to make sure they’re still there, holding onto each other.

“Let’s not come back to France for a while,” Clarke says. Her hair is cut short and her nails are a mess. She’s lost so much weight.

But she’s _alive_. And they’ve got her.

“What?” Bellamy asks. “You didn’t have fun?”

“I hate you,” Clarke shoots back, but there’s a smile in her voice. Something small and shaky.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

He doesn’t try to take her from Raven when they’re out, but no one tries to stop him from following them. It’s probably not proper, but he and Clarke are engaged, and Raven glares at everyone so fiercely that they don’t even get any greetings.

Bellamy shoves the two beds together; Raven knows, from other bad nights, that she and Clarke can fit in one without discomfort, but all three of them would be too much.

She takes the left, and Bellamy takes the right, and Clarke settles between them. _Safe_. She’s safe. They’re all safe.

“There’s no way Lady Abigail is ever going to let all three of us sleep in Clarke’s room,” Bellamy finally remarks. “I don’t care how married any of us get.”

“You and Clarke,” Raven says. It doesn’t hurt. “You’re already engaged. It’s easier.”

“But ladies can be old maids,” says Clarke. “It might be harder for you.”

“Mechanics can be old maids too.” She lets herself press her lips to Clarke’s shoulder. “I don’t care. You can get married, and your mom will learn to deal with me.”

Clarke’s fingers tangle with Raven’s, and Raven tries not to feel her bones through her skin, tries not to think about the jagged edges of her fingernails. Her eyes meet Bellamy’s, and she knows they’re thinking the same thing.

“She will,” Clarke agrees.

“It’s a big bed,” Bellamy points out. “Not like we’re not all going to fit.”

“Exactly,” Clarke says, and Raven lets her eyes close. She’s got them. They’re going to be fine. “Easy peasy.”


	57. Minty - Not If They Were Called Scumdrops timestamp: Parentage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [hannahabbott](http://hannahabbott.tumblr.com/)! Original fic [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6240997).

In general, Nate doesn’t understand relationships. He gets why people have them, he wants one himself, and when he’s dating someone, he enjoys it. But he’s pretty sure that there’s supposed to be this kind of progression from dates to cohabitation to marriage to children, and the pacing of those is a mystery. He watched Bellamy go through all of them in the expected order, and it still boggles him, how easy he made it look. Bellamy’s supposed to be worse at these things than he is.

“So, you want to marry Monty?” Bellamy suggests, when Nate asks him how the fuck this happened. Only without the profanity, because his goddaughter is starting to talk, and he doesn’t want to lose the _who teaches her the first swear word_ bet. It’s definitely going to be Clarke. It would be shameful to lose to her. “That’s what I’m hearing. Since you guys are already cohabitating.”

“I don’t know,” he says, scrubbing his hand over his face. “It’s only been two years. That’s not long. You and Clarke didn’t get engaged that fast.”

“And we’re obviously the gold standard of relationships everyone should aspire to,” Bellamy agrees, picking up Diana when she frets. Even after two years, it’s strange watching Bellamy as a father, not because it’s unnatural, but because it’s not. Bellamy’s such a good father, it feels weirder remembering that he once wasn’t one. “We met in college,” he continues. “It’s not like I wouldn’t have married her sooner, but it didn’t feel like there was much of a rush. We weren’t ready to get married. But if I met her when you met Monty, I probably would have proposed already.”

“So I’m not going too fast, I’m going too slow?” Nate asks. “Great, thanks. Glad I asked you. Really helpful.”

“Sorry I love Clarke more than you love Monty,” Bellamy shoots back, grinning, and Nate grins back. “Seriously, if you don’t know if you’re ready to get married, just ask Monty. Clarke and I talked about when we wanted to get married all the time. It doesn’t have to be a surprise. It really shouldn’t be.”

“That’s part of why I’m worried,” Nate admits. “We talked about this stuff all the time before we got together, but as a joke. And now it’s still kind of a joke, like, think about all the kids with shitty names we’re going to have. But–” He exhales and lets himself say it. “I want kids.”

“Cool, you should. You’re going to be a good dad. Here, get some practice,” he adds, and hands Nate Diana without further warning.

At two and a half, Diana is chubby and happy and likes eating her own fist as much as anything else. Nate’s not really sold on toddlers, if he’s honest; he loves Diana, obviously, but he wouldn’t mind if his own kids came house-trained and pre-loaded with personalities.

It’s probably just as well he’s gay; he thinks it’s harder to talk women into adopting, when biological kids are on the table. Which sucks, because there are a lot of foster kids who could use someone. Genetics just don’t seem like a huge deal.

“You want a cousin, right?” he asks Diana. “Someone who can take care of you.”

“She needs all the help she can get,” Bellamy agrees. He gets some applesauce and jerks his head to indicate Nate should get her in the high chair. “You want an older kid? Not a baby?”

“Yeah. Everyone wants to adopt babies. I’m a foster-kid hipster. I’m going to request older kids before it’s cool.”

Bellamy snorts. “Yeah, that sounds right.” He leans against the counter, watching as Diana sticks her whole hand into the applesauce, and then moves it to her mouth. “Just talk to him. I know it feels weird when you guys joked about it, but that means you know the idea doesn’t freak him out. It’s a good thing. You guys know how to communicate. Don’t forget just because you’re nervous.”

“You’re so wise,” says Nate, mostly because genuine displays of friendship make him uncomfortable. “And strong. And handsome. And rugged.”

“Save the sweet-talking for Monty,” he says, without missing a beat. “I’m taken.”

*

“Bellamy says we need to have an adult conversation,” is what he tells Monty.

Monty pauses. “About anything specific, or does Bellamy just generally worry about our conversational competence? Because that sounds like him.”

It’s amazing, how much better that makes him feel, instantaneously. Maybe Bellamy was right; maybe this doesn’t have to be scary. This is _Monty_. Relationships, in the abstract, are intimidating. His actual relationship is awesome.

“I actually asked him for advice, so my fault.”

“Oh, wow. It must be bad. Asking Bellamy for advice is pretty drastic.”

Nate smiles. “Yeah, I regretted it pretty much immediately.” He lets out a breath. “It feels weird saying this, but–I want kids. Like–soon. I want to start on the fostering thing. And if you don’t, that’s cool, it’s not, like–a deal breaker or whatever. But it takes a while, and I want to start thinking about it.”

“Okay,” says Monty. Nate’s expecting something more, so he doesn’t say anything, and Monty grins. “Sorry, that was it. I’m really cool with it. I don’t know what steps we’re taking, but we should definitely take them. Do we need to get married?”

“Need to?” Nate asks.

“That sounded bad,” Monty says, too quick. “I assume we’re getting married, at some point. I’m looking forward to it. But I don’t know if we want to do it now because it’s good for getting a foster kid or if we don’t care and we’ll get married later.”

“I don’t actually know.” He pauses, but–Bellamy is a happily married person with a child, and he and Clarke have a strong, healthy relationship. He has to have some amount of wisdom. “I guess it depends on what you’re looking for from a wedding. I don’t care about having something big, so we could just get married any time, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Yeah,” says Monty. “That’s about where I’m at.”

It feels like cheating, to have a conversation like this when he hasn’t even proposed. Or Monty hasn’t. No one’s proposed, but by the end of the day, they’ve agreed they should talk to someone about fostering, look into buying a house, and go down to the courthouse to get a marriage license. Then, when they’ve got a house, they can have a combination housewarming/wedding party, and their parents won’t feel cheated out of celebrating.

Nothing in the conversation is much of a _surprise_ , with the possible exception of Monty being cool with starting in on fostering, but it still feels weird. It’s hard to believe it can just be so easy, to just talk and resolve things.

Maybe Bellamy really is wise. That would be terrifying.

“This house actually looks really nice,” Monty offers. “If we’re doing this.”

Nate leans over his shoulder, watching as he scrolls through pictures. “That does look nice.” He exhales. “We’re doing this.”

*

Their first foster kid is an asshole.

Not that Nate’s upset about it or anything. He’s seventeen and just waiting to time out of the system. His name is John, and he tells them to call him Murphy, so Nate says he can call him Miller, and Nate spends the eight months between getting custody of Murphy and his eighteenth birthday calling him _John_ while Murphy calls him _Nathan_. They keep him from doing drugs in the house and tell him he can call if he ever needs anything, and Nate counts it as a success that he thinks he will.

The second kid is eight, quiet and shy, just in need of a place for a few months while her mom is in rehab. He wouldn’t have minded keeping her longer, but it’s hard to be upset, seeing how happy it makes her to see her mother again.

The next is homophobic, and they can’t make that one work. And then there are a couple more short stays, kids who don’t need a new family, just a place to stay for a little while, while their lives rearrange themselves.

Then their social worker says, “How would you feel about siblings?”

Nate and Monty exchange a look. “Siblings?” Monty asks.

“A girl and a boy,” says Harper. She slides the file across the desk. “Six and three. Mother passed away, father unknown. No living relatives. If the fit was good, we’d be looking at a permanent placement, if you’re up for it. They’re a little prickly, especially Candice, but I think you’d do well with them.”

“Yeah,” says Nate, scanning the profile. “She actually reminds me of my best friend, at least for background. And he’s got a daughter about her age.” He glances at Monty again. “I think we could be really good for them.”

Monty nods. “Yeah. I don’t think we’re against a long-term placement. Adoption, if they like us.”

“Yeah,” Nate echoes. “That would be cool.”

Monty slides his hand into Nate’s when they’re alone. “Is this actually cool, or are you in the bad kind of shock? We don’t have to be looking for kids to adopt yet. It’s cool if we’re not ready yet. I won’t mind.”

“No,” he says. “I think I am ready. Is that weird?”

“It’s been three years since we got married,” Monty points out. “That’s pretty much within normal range for having permanent kids. Plus, like you said, Diana’s five. We have lifelines.” He pauses. “If you don’t want to, that’s fine. But I want to.”

“I want to,” Nate says. “We’re doing it.”

*

They drive down to Virginia to get the kids a week later. Nate knew, from their files, that they were biracial, black mother and fathers presumed white but still unknown, and he hopes when they see him, they see someone familiar. Someone safe.

Candice is about the same size as Diana, for all she’s older, with her hair in two neat plaits. Garrett is hiding behind her, all big, curious eyes, and Nate feels this strange lurch of certainty.

These are their kids. This is it.

He kneels down. “Hey, I’m Nate. This is my husband, Monty. We’re here to bring you home with us.”

“I’m Candice,” she says, clearly sizing him up. “That’s my little brother. How long do you want to take us?”

“For as long as you want to stay,” says Nate. “If you don’t want to stay anymore, they’ll bring you back here. But I think you’re gonna like it. We’ve got a nice house, and my best friend’s has a daughter just about your age. And a baby,” he feels compelled to add. “But she doesn’t do really do much yet.”

That makes Candice giggle, so he doesn’t even feel bad for making fun of Thalia. It’s not like she’ll ever know.

“And we’re thinking about getting a dog,” Monty adds. “If you guys like dogs.”

“Dog?” asks Garrett, and Nate grins.

“Thinking about it, anyway. So do you want to come see our place?”

“Yeah,” says Candice, and takes his hand when he offers it.

Monty takes the other and squeezes.

“Good?” he asks.

“Yeah,” says Nate. “Let’s go home.”


	58. In Some Old-Fashioned Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [allgrownpup](http://allgrownpup.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: Bellarke Witch AU: you accidentally drank my really powerful love potion wait why didn't it work

Bellamy finds out he’s the family witch when he’s ten, and it’s a huge surprise. Part of it is, of course, that he’s a boy, and boys don’t tend to be witches. But it’s also that Octavia seems like such a _perfect_ witch. Ever since she was born, everyone had just been assuming. He’s spent his whole life preparing his sister to be the witch, and then his grandmother comes to visit, takes one look at them, and says, “No, Bellamy. Of course you’re the witch.”

And, well, at least he’s prepared for it. After all, he’s been teaching his sister for years, so he knows all the basics. He’s got all the background he needs. He just didn’t think _he_ was going to need it. This was supposed to be Octavia’s thing.

But she seems pretty happy being just a regular kid who doesn’t have to learn what herbs go into which potions and how to soothe coughs and calm stormy feelings. She’s just not really interested in witchcraft, although it seems perfect for her on paper.

And, honestly, Bellamy really _does_ like it. He’s good at it. Once he’s old enough, he picks up a job working for Anya, the local witch, after school at her shop, and once he’s done with high school, he skips college and goes to a new town, to be their witch.

Which is how he meets Clarke, when he’s twenty-six.

She comes in on a Tuesday afternoon, which is generally one of the shop’s deader times, in her pajamas with red eyes and her hair coming out of a messy bun.

It’s pretty standard.

“Hi,” he says. “How can I help you? We have charms for everything from head colds to broken hearts.”

She laughs, kind of soft and surprised, and manages a genuine smile. “I can’t tell if that’s your standard spiel or you think those are my two most likely ailments.”

“Honestly? Both.”

“Fair enough. I guess those would probably be the two big ones.”

“That and study aids.”

“Study aids?”

“Focus potions. I get a lot of stressed-out students who want something to help them with finals.”

“Huh. I didn’t know that was thing.”

“Witches: we’re useful.” He drums his fingers on the table. “So what is it? I know it’s not finals, and you don’t sound like you’re stuffed up, so–broken heart?”

“Yeah, but–that’s not what I’m looking for. A cure, I mean. The focus stuff actually sounds great. I’m not–I had a really rough breakup, and I’m going to get worried about it. But I haven’t been sleeping well. And I’m having trouble studying. I’m pretty sure I’m going to get sick soon. I finally fell asleep at, like, seven this morning, and I slept through my alarm and my class and I just–I need to stop thinking so much. So something to help me sleep and something to help me stop worrying about how she fucked me over would be great.”

“I definitely have stuff for sleep. The other one is–more complicated.”

“Yeah?”

He drums his fingers on the counter. “So, if you want to study for a test, focus is good. But it’s also–” He huffs. “That works because what you’re avoiding thinking about is the studying, and the focus brings that to the forefront. But you’re trying to think about something else.”

“So I want a distraction potion,” she says. “Is that a thing?”

“It can be.” He considers. “It’ll work best if you tell me about it. So I can make you something that’s, uh–tailored to your situation. It’s easier if I have more details.”

“Is that standard?” she asks.

“Depends on the situation. A lot of the time, a generic spell is fine, but–most people don’t really need that much. It’s really just a magical band-aid.”

“What’s the heartbreak band-aid?” she asks.

“We’ve got a couple. There’s on that numbs feelings for a while, one that makes you remember the worst things about your ex–”

She laughs at that. “Really?”

“It works for some people. But you have the sleeping and the distraction, so it’s easier if you let me make you a custom brew.”

“I’m kind of curious how it works,” she says. “Can I watch?”

And that’s how it starts. She tells him about herself as he makes the potion, about not just this breakup, with a girl who turned out to be a bad match, but her last one, with a guy who already had another girlfriend, and how her dad died recently, and she’s just–

She’s got a lot she’s not thinking about. Bellamy can’t blame her for needing some help.

He talks her through what he’s putting in the potion, explains what turns the mind away from bad memories, what soothes the anxiety that keeps her from sleeping, what will focus her on the good things.

She thanks him, and he’s not necessarily _expecting_ her to come back, but he’s kind of hoping for it, so when she’s back in the next week, he’s (mostly) delighted.

“If you went through that whole potion already, you were seriously overdosing,” he says. “I’m not giving you another one.”

She laughs. “Yeah, no. It’s fine. I just–it was interesting? Learning about this stuff. I was wondering if I could just–” She ducks her head. “Are you hiring? Like, a helper or whatever. Someone to run the register. Or just a weird college student to hang out and ask you annoying questions about what you’re doing. I’m not picky.”

“I couldn’t really pay you. But if you just want to hang around, yeah, that’s fine. I don’t mind company.”

It’s not usually true–plenty of people get on his nerves, and a lot of people ask too many stupid questions–but Clarke is good. She pays attention and likes to figure things out herself, so he doesn’t need to worry about amusing her. When she asks questions, they’re smart and interesting, and sometimes he doesn’t even know the answer, so it’s good to think through and figure it out. Like most people, she doesn’t have any inherent magical skills, but she’s decent at chopping and pounding herbs, and she’s pre-med, so she has interesting opinions on how doctors get help from witches and vice versa.

It’s a profound relief when she graduates and decides she doesn’t actually want to go to med school yet, or possibly ever, and gets a job at an art gallery in town. She’s around the store less, but that just means they have to spend time together outside of work. They watch Netflix and bicker about where to get takeout, and he only spends like seventy-five percent of his time wondering what would happen if he kissed her.

Which is why it’s such a fucking disaster when she drinks the love potion he has in his fridge.

It is a massive, colossal fuck-up. Love potions are one of those things that he’s usually very, very careful with, because they’re illegal to sell and not a great idea to keep around, but they’re used as components in a lot of spells and other potions. He’s fully licensed to make and possess love potions, and he’s never had any problems with it before.

Granted, he’s never run out of bottles before, so it takes him a minute to put it together when Clarke yells, “Your soda is flat!” from the kitchen.

“I don’t have soda!” he yells back.

Clarke comes in, shaking the mostly-full Coke bottle at him. “Soda. In your fridge. No wonder it’s flat, you forgot you had it.”

Bellamy feels all the blood drain from his face. He’s surprised all the blood doesn’t drain from his entire body. He’s going to _die_ of shame. “Fuck,” he says.“

The teasing smile falls off her face. “What?”

“You drank that?”

“Yeah. What is it?”

“Uh, potion.” He wets his lips. “How do you feel?”

“Normal. How am I supposed to feel?”

“It varies from person to person.” He doesn’t actually know how long it takes to go into effect. He was going to use it for a batch of heartbreak chocolates, which are a new thing he’s trying, and it was supposed to be really powerful. But he’s never made it before, so–maybe he fucked it up. “There’s nothing fatal in there,” he says.

“Oh good. Seriously, you’re freaking me out.”

“You’re freaking me out,” he shoots back. “You don’t feel weird?”

“Nope. Totally normal.”

“And, uh, when you look at me?” he asks. It should make her fall deeply in love with the first person she sees. It’s supposed to be–well, it’s supposed to be epic. She should want to tear his clothes off and move into his bed. Which he’d be fine with, but–yeah. Not like this. Never like this.

“I see you,” she says. “What am I supposed to be seeing?”

“Me.” He sighs. “Feel anything different?”

“Nope.”

It hurts, for no good reason at all. He doesn’t want it to have worked on her. He doesn’t want her to be in love with him because of a potion. “Maybe I made it wrong.”

“It would help if you told me what should be happening,” she points out, not unreasonably. “Then I’ll know if it is.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “It’s, uh–it’s a love potion?” he admits. “I should have warned you, I usually put those a different bottle, but I was in a hurry today. Anyway, it’s no big deal. I must have fucked it up, so that’s good to know. Would have been pretty bad to use it for the chocolates I was making tomorrow.” He groans. “Fuck, now I can’t make them. It takes like a week to set, and I don’t even have all the ingredients for a new batch.”

Clarke is watching him. “So–I should feel like I’m in love?”

“Yeah.”

“With you.”

“Yeah.”

“What kind of love? Like–”

“It’s not a BFFs-for-life potion,” he snaps, even though it’s a fair question. Clarke knows there are as many varieties of love potion as there are varieties of love, and this one just happened to be the works: affection, adoration, desire, lust. _Fuck_. “If you don’t want to fuck me, it didn’t work. You’re in the clear.”

“Is there a way you can test it?” she asks. “To see if you made it right?”

“You just did,” he says, slow. “You drank it, you’re not in love with me, so–I messed it up.”

To his surprise, she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and then nods once. She opens her eyes again, and says, very steady, “What does it do if I was already in love with you?”

His brain stops working for a second. “What?”

“I wanted to fuck you _before_ I drank the potion, Bellamy. When I saw you–yeah, it was the same as every time I see you. But I’m already in love with you, so I don’t know what it was supposed to do.”

“Oh. Uh. Shit. I don’t know either.” He wets his lips. “You’re–really?”

“For a while, yeah.” She ducks her head. “I was trying to figure out how to tell you. Sorry, I–”

He’s halfway to kissing her when he stops. “I, uh–I love you too,” he says. “But I really need to figure out what–I need to make sure this isn’t making you do anything you don’t want to. Before I drag you off somewhere to make out.”

Her face breaks open on a laugh. “So is this the part of the night where you do research on love potions and I resist the urge to jump you? I do that every night.”

“Just give me ten minutes, okay?”

She is acting completely normal, apart from saying she was in love with him, so she flops down on the couch and watches Netflix while he calls Anya to tell her what potion he made and ask her what would happen if someone drank it and was already in love.

“They’d still fall in love with the first person they saw,” she says.

“But what if they were already in love with the first person they saw?” he persists.

There’s a pause, and then she says, “You should probably just tell me what happened.”

“I had an Inamorate potion in a soda bottle in the fridge and my best friend drank it. She says it didn’t do anything because she was already in love with me. So is that right, or did I just fuck up the recipe?”

“Put a drop of it in rubbing alcohol, and it if turns blue, you made it correctly.” She pauses, like she’s looking something up, and then adds, “ _Love potions have no effect if the drinker already has the feelings they are supposed to create_ ,” she says. “If she didn’t notice a change, then you made it wrong, or she already loved you. Make sure this never happens again.”

“Got it. Thanks.”

Clarke stands way too close as he puts a drop of the liquid into a teaspoon of rubbing alcohol, and they both watch as it turns blue.

“Oh,” he breathes. “Seriously, no change?”

“No change. I don’t see why this is so shocking.”

He bites his lip on a kind of stupidly sappy smile. “It’s a really strong love potion. Like, uh–really strong.”

She slides her arms around his neck. “Okay, so I love you a lot.”

“Apparently,” he says, and finally lets himself lean down to kiss her.

He still can’t help making an antidote three days later.

“What are you going to do if this makes me not love you anymore?”

“Apologize until I can’t talk anymore.”

She leans up to kiss him. “You really did your due diligence on this one. Also, that potion literally did nothing. I love you.” She drinks the antidote anyway, and his stomach drops when her face screws up in disgust.

“Fuck, Clarke, are you–”

“This is _awful_. The love potion was a lot better.” She hands him the flask. “You have to try it.”

“Still love me?” he has to ask.

“I still love you. Drink the gross antidote.”

He does, of course, because she asked him to, and it really does taste disgusting. “Fuck, I’m sorry,” he says, laughing. “I had no idea it would taste that bad.”

“Falling out of love sucks, I guess,” she says, but she’s smiling, and she leans up to kiss him. “Let’s not do that.”

He laughs, tugs her close. “Yeah. I’d rather not.”

And they don’t.


	59. His Revels Here Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [theycameloadedforbear](http://theycameloadedforbear.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: A bellarke fic, where Bellamy is the king of the fairies, and Clarke is stuck in fairyland because her ex-girlfriend lexa trapped her there, and also please include bellamy flailing hard in social settings and being adorably and unnecessarily jealous of clarke for her supposed relationship with lexa!

Clarke has heard that the best revenge is living well, which she thinks is basically true, but also reveals a basic personality defect of hers, because she’d like to think if she was really living well, she wouldn’t be that interested in revenge. Ideally, she’d be too busy enjoying her life. That feels like the basic goal of living well. If you’re truly happy, you don’t need to be showing the people who have wronged you how happy you are.

It’s a nice theory. Clarke likes to think, if nothing else, she has some _extremely_ mitigating circumstances. So she’s allowed to go to a party and gloat. She’s earned that.

“What is with humans and tying things around your necks?” Bellamy grumbles, as Clarke ties his necktie. In theory, he can just use magic to get dressed, but he has to tell the magic what to do with the clothing, and apparently this one is beyond his fathoming. Clarke tried to explain how the rabbit goes through the hole, and Bellamy, being fairly literal-minded, got an actual rabbit.

He’s cute.

“Is this some sort of mortal obsession with courting death by asphyxiation?” he goes on. “Do you get a perverse thrill out of it?”

“Don’t kinkshame humanity, Bellamy.”

“I don’t know what that means, but I’m going to do it.” He huffs. “It would be easier if you just let me smite her. Or curse her. I could do all sorts of things.”

“I don’t actually want her dead. I feel like you think mortals are a lot more okay with death than we are.”

“Well, you die all the time,” he points out, not unreasonably. At least, not unreasonably from _his_ perspective. “I assumed you were used to it.”

“No, it’s basically what motivates everything we do.”

“Weird.” She finishes the tying tie, and there’s a deliberate pause as he watches her, eyes roving over her face. “Maybe that’s why some people want to stay in this realm,” he says, casual. “Avoid that. It’s a perk.”

“I never said I wasn’t coming back,” Clarke points out, fond and amused all at once. “In fact, I keep saying I _am_. You convinced me. I like it here. Do I need to eat some weird fruit to tie myself to your realm? I can do that, but, honestly, I’m more into a relationship based on mutual trust and respect.”

“Yeah, that does sound better.” He gives her a crooked smile. “Sorry. I know I don’t really get all your squishy mortal issues, but I do know that this is really fucking weird.”

 _Really fucking weird_ is honestly an understatement, but it’s hard to really capture how fucked up their how-we-met story is in a five words or less. Clarke’s ex-girlfriend ended up trapping her in the fairy realm, possibly by accident, in her pursuit of opening up a doorway. Clarke had been brought before the king, Bellamy, and they’d spent months trying to figure out how to undo the spell trapping Clarke in his realm, but the longer they’d worked together, the more Clarke realized she didn’t really want to go back. She liked the fairy realm, liked all the books and the magical creatures.

Liked Bellamy, who, once he stopped trying to be Oberon from _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ , and settled into being himself: kind of a dorky (apparently) thirty-something guy with an endearingly bad sense of humor. One who was getting increasingly anxious about the possibility of her actually leaving, but still helping, because he knew that she had people she’d left behind.

In the end, they’d figured out how to open the door, and she’d told him she wanted to send a letter through it for her mother, so she wouldn’t worry, and now she’s–well, they’re not married, so she’s not queen of the fairies. King’s consort, maybe.

 _Bellamy’s girlfriend_ is sufficient for her, as titles go.

It’s not _permanent_ , because there’s no way for it to be completely permanent. As long as she stays in his realm, she doesn’t age, and she’ll develop her own powers. It’s how it happened for him, a child who was stolen because his family didn’t appreciate him. He aged to adulthood and then stopped, and when the previous king decided to move onto the world beyond, he gave Bellamy his crown. Every time he visits the moral realm, he ages a few hours and comes back with some vague ideas about how society and technology have progressed, which are already out of date almost before he’s left.

Which, Clarke figures, means they can stop by her mother’s annual Christmas party to check in, verify that she’s alive, and she can say some proper goodbyes. And, as a bonus, she can show off her hot new boyfriend _and_ rub it in Lexa’s face that she’s fine, thriving, and some kind of fairy princess now.

She’s really looking forward to it.

“I’m good,” she says, and means it. “You’re the one freaking out.”

“I’ve never met my girlfriend’s family before,” he points out. “Or my girlfriend’s ex. And I’m bad with mortals.”

“Don’t call them mortals.”

“See? This is what I’m talking about.”

She pulls him down for a kiss. “You’re going to be fine.”

“Says you,” he says, but he sobers almost instantly, looking serious. “Listen, I’m not saying this is going to change your mind. I’m just saying, if it does, I’ll understand.”

She has to smile. “I appreciate it. But I think you’re underestimating how much I hate my mother’s Christmas party. That’s really not the event that’s going to make me think I should stay in the mortal realm. You’d only need to worry if we were doing something fun.”

“Sure,” he says, but he doesn’t really sound convinced. He offers his arm anyway. “Ready?”

“Ready.” She pecks his cheek. “Thanks for doing this.”

His apprehension melts into a smile. “Yeah. Any time.”

Clarke wasn’t lying about the party. It’s always busy and crowded, full of people she doesn’t care about who think making a good impression on her will curry favor with her mother, which has never been very true and has probably been an active handicap for at least five years.

On the bright side, the alcohol is free and plentiful.

“This will stop doing much for you the longer you spend in my realm,” Bellamy points out, making a face at the eggnog.

“That’s because you have better, more potent booze,” Clarke shoots back. “Why are you trying to talk me out of this?”

“I’m just making sure you have enough information to make an informed decision about whether or not you really want to stay.” He sips his drink, eyes casting around the room. He’s already been introduced to her mother, but he’s still tense, on edge, and she can’t figure out why until he asks, “Which one is Lexa?”

Clarke hides her smile in her drink. “You mean the woman I wasn’t dating _before_ she trapped me in an alternate dimension without warning? You’re right, you definitely need to be jealous here.”

“Well, you like the alternate dimension.”

“I like _you_. The dimension is a bonus.”

“Groovy,” he says, and she hides another smile. Bellamy’s manners are a bizarre amalgam of every time period he’s ever visited, his vocabulary rangers from words he feels can’t adequately be translated from the Latin to unironic use of the words like _groovy_ and _verily_. He just holds on to whatever he likes and refuses to let go, both in terms of words and everything else, from what she can tell. “I still want to know which one she is,” he adds.

“She’ll come find us when she sees me. It’s not like I wrote _her_ a letter. As far as she knows, I’m still trapped.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“She’s the one who gets to find out I’m moving to another realm to live with my hot, fairy boyfriend. You should be looking forward to it.”

There’s a pause, and then he says, careful, “She didn’t tell you about the spell, did she?”

“What about it? I knew what she was researching. I didn’t think she’d ever actually do it, but–she said her assistant got sick and she needed someone to help. I was–we had a good breakup, you know? We both agreed we wanted different things and it wasn’t working out. So when she asked, I felt like I was an asshole if I said no. We were supposed to be friendly.”

He nods. “Yeah, uh–the spell she used. It requires love. On both sides. Or it won’t work. She called you in because she still loves you, and you got thrown into my realm because you still love her.” He worries his lip. “So–Merry Christmas. You can stay here, and–”

Clarke takes his cup and sets it aside so she can lean up to kiss him. He’s stiff for a minute, still in formal-speech mode, but he relaxes into it.

“That’s why you’ve been worrying?”

“I should have told you sooner. I just–she banished you. I don’t care if she loves you, she doesn’t deserve you. But if I didn’t tell you, I wouldn’t either.”

Clarke brushes a curl of dark hair off his temple with a fond smile. “Of course I still love her,” she says. “But that’s not the huge deal you’re making it out to be. I still love all the people I’ve dated, even the ones who were kind of assholes. That’s kind of how it works for me. I can’t just turn that off. But I’m not dating them anymore for a reason.” She pokes him. “And, seriously, she did a spell that trapped me in another world. Just because that worked out for me doesn’t mean I’m not pissed at her.”

“Which one’s pissed again?” he asks, but he’s smiling again. “Last time I was here that meant drunk.”

“I think that’s a geographic thing, not a timing one.” She leans against his chest. “We broke up. I’m done. I don’t want her, I want you.”

“Capital,” he says, and she laughs.

“Dork.”

Bellamy is being generally confused by and terrified of the molecular gastronomy hors d'oeuvres when Lexa eventually finds them. She looks as beautiful and severe as ever, but Clarke’s delighted to see she also seems genuinely spooked, as if she’s spotted a ghost.

“Clarke,” she says. “Your mother said you were here, I couldn’t believe–I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah?” Clarke asks, interested.

“I didn’t think–the wording of the spell was ambiguous, I didn’t think anything would happen to _you_ , just that the portal would open–”

“This is why you want to do your research first and not just run into magic with human test subjects,” Bellamy observes. “Just for next time.”

Lexa’s eyes flash. “Who are you?”

“This is Bellamy, king of the fairies. Bellamy, Lexa. My ex.”

“Salutations,” says Bellamy. “Heard a lot about you. Learned some swell new profanity.”

“King of the fairies,” Lexa repeats.

“The spell worked,” Clarke says. “And that other dimension really is pretty fun.”

“We’ve got magic,” Bellamy interjects. “And really potent potables.” Clarke raises her eyebrows at him, and he shrugs. “I have the Jeopardy home game. I know what’s up.”

“Clearly,” she says, impossibly fond, and turns her attention back to Lexa. “Seriously, though, an open portal between the fairy realm is a terrible idea. If you open one, we’re going to have to close it. For the good of our people.”

“Your people?” Lexa asks, raising one eyebrow. “You’re–staying?” she asks.

“Verily,” says Clarke, and it’s Bellamy’s turn to laugh. “So, thanks. Really. I owe you one.”

“Don’t say that when you’re the fairy queen,” he says. “That’s considered a binding promise. So–I don’t owe you anything,” he tells Lexa. “But I really appreciate it. I don’t get nearly as many people banished to my realm as I used to.”

“I suppose not,” she says, still not fully recovered. Her look of poleaxed confusion is, honestly, the best Christmas present Clarke’s ever gotten.

Bellamy offers his arm again when they’re finally ready to go. “Have fun?”

“So much fun.”

“And you want to come back with me?”

She leans her head on his shoulder. “Don’t be an idiot. Let’s go home.”

His smile is soft and a little shy and _perfect_. “As you wish,” he says, and she doesn’t look back.


	60. The Reason You Fall, The Moment You Fly timestamp: Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [lackingstealth](http://lackingstealth.tumblr.com/)! Original fic [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7190855).

They find Raven Reyes in the Northern Air Temple, and Clarke honestly thinks Bellamy loses ten years of his life when they do, judging from the sound he makes.

Not that she doesn’t scare Clarke too. None of them were expecting to find anyone here, let alone–whatever Raven is.

“Earth Kingdom,” she says, like that’s an explanation. “Your turn, what are you?”

Clarke glances back at Bellamy, and he raises one shoulder, leaving the choice up to her. She turns her attention back to Raven. She’s around their age, probably a year or two younger than Bellamy, gorgeous, all sharp eyes and perfectly smooth ponytail. But her shoulders are uneven on her crutches, and she’s too thin, her face too hard.

It’s hard to say what happened to her, but it’s clear that whatever brought her here wasn’t good.

“I’m the Avatar,” Clarke says. “And this is my boyfriend. His sister and our friend are outside with my flying bison.”

Her statement has the intended effect: Raven’s cool, collected expression falters for a second, and she asks, “Wait, the _Avatar_?” before she regains her composure.

“I can airbend for you, if you want,” she offers.

“Hell yes I want you to airbend. Show me what you’ve got.”

Clarke has a few basic tricks she likes to use when someone asks her to prove she’s an airbender, and she does her scooter this time, a ball of air she can ride around the room, one of the things Wells came up with when they were kids. She remembers seeing him do it in this very room, and that makes her falter, stumble. She trips on the dismount and Bellamy catches her.

Raven, at least, still looks impressed. So Clarke’s definitely not a _total_ failure, as an avatar. She’s a tiny bit cool, in spite of everything.

In all honesty, she’s amazed she’s doing as well as she is, considering where they are.

Bellamy had been apprehensive about coming, not surprisingly. They didn’t have a reason to, but they haven’t had any luck finding her an earthbending teacher, and the temple was on their way, in as much as anything is on their way, given they don’t really have a destination. Luna didn’t have anyone to train her, because it would have been a level of involvement beyond what she’d ask of her people, and finding someone else is hard, given they’re wanted everywhere they go.

“Can’t find a teacher, so you might as well traumatize yourself,” Bellamy had grumbled, but of course he’d go anywhere she said she thought she needed to.

She really doesn’t know what she’d do without him.

“Okay?” he asks now, low. He’s got most of his attention on Raven, but he’s holding her arms, steadying her. In case she needs it.

“Yeah,” she says. “I used to live here,” she adds, to Raven.

Raven whistles. “So, it’s really true, huh? You’re the same Avatar?”

“Same Avatar,” she confirms. “Just took a quick break.”

Raven snorts. “Quick break, huh?”

“Beauty sleep,” says Bellamy.

Raven turns her attention to him, examining him with a critical eye. “Where’d you come from?”

He shrugs. “Water tribe.”

“How’d you end up with the Avatar?”

That gets a smile out of him, and he relaxes, like this is for some reason the question that makes him believe Raven isn’t a threat. Clarke’s not sure why that does it, but she trusts his judgement.

“Just lucky, I guess.”

*

“So, what are you doing here?”

It’s Octavia who asks the blunt question, because that’s what Octavia’s good at. Every group needs someone who will just cut through diplomacy and politeness and be blunt. And, okay, in their group, that’s everyone but Lincoln, but Octavia does it first, fastest, and best.

“I live here,” Raven says, without missing a beat.

“Okay, but _why_ do you live here? It’s an air temple. It’s a ruin _and_ a massacre site and it’s a total pain to get here, even if both your legs work fine. So why did you come here?”

“I don’t see why it’s your business.”

“If it’s anyone’s business, it’s Clarke’s,” Bellamy points out. “She’s an airbender. It’s her temple.”

It feels like her cue. “I grew up here. That’s why I wanted to see it again. I hadn’t, not since–” Her voice catches, which is probably for the best. The pain is genuine, and if they can use it to get Raven on their side, that’s even better. “Not for a hundred years,” she says, finally.

“Fuck, does that ever stop being weird?” Raven asks, on a huff.

“Not so far,” says Bellamy. “You’re stalling.”

Raven exhales. “I had to leave the Earth Kingdom because I discovered something. Something that Queen Ontari wanted and I didn’t want her to have. I fucked up my leg trying getting out, and I ended up here because I figured no one else would come. Everyone says it’s cursed.”

“I understand that,” says Lincoln. “We’re no friends of the Earth Kingdom. I had deflected with Princess Luna, before I joined the Avatar.”

“What did you find?” Clarke asks, curious.

She considers for a long time, but apparently they’ve convinced her of their trustworthiness, because she finally leans forward and says, “Metalbending.”

“Metalbending?” Bellamy repeats. “Like–I guess that’s exactly what it sounds like?”

“Yeah. Metal is made of the same stuff earth is, so I figured you could bend it the same way. I didn’t tell anyone important I was doing it, but–” She huffs. “My ex. He said something stupid to the wrong person, and next thing I knew, the guard were coming to tell me I had _information for the queen_. And I wasn’t going to tell her anything, so I ran.” Her mouth twists. “At least until they fucked up my leg and I couldn’t run anymore. But I still got away.”

Clarke glances over at Bellamy, and then back at Raven. “You know, anyone who can figure out how to bend metal must be a pretty powerful earthbender,” she offers.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Raven asks.

“I’m looking for an earthbending teacher,” she says. “And it sounds like you could use some allies.”

*

In a way, it feels fitting, that they found Raven here, in the ruins of the temple. Clarke needed _something_ good to come out of this, not just pain and misery, not just the knowledge that she failed.

They spend a week there, getting Raven back on her feet. She made her own bandages and crutch, and they’re serviceable, but Lincoln and Clarke have actual knowledge of medicine. Clarke and Octavia learned a little about using waterbending to heal, too, so Clarke can ease some of the pain, clean up the wound. She’s never going to walk without a brace, but between Lincoln’s woodworking and Raven’s metalbending, they rig up a better one, more comfortable and more supportive both.

And that means they get to see the metalbending, which is–it’s like nothing Clarke’s ever seen before. She’s the Avatar, which means she’s can bend all of the elements, but she’ll never be as good with any individual one as the best of the single-element benders are.

“Oh, you’re not the best at something?” Bellamy teases. “You can’t bend everything better than everyone else in the world. Wow, that must suck. I feel so bad for you. You can bend all the elements, but not as well as other people. I can’t even imagine.”

“I’m trying to be serious,” she says, jamming her elbow back against his bare ribs. They’ve been sleeping in her old room, which is surreal and comforting all at once. It’s impossible not to remember her old life, a world that’s been gone for almost a hundred years, but also hard not to think about the way Bellamy wasn’t in that life, how even if he had been, she never would have been allowed to speak to someone like him, a non-bender from the Eastern Water Tribe. A nobody, as far as her mother would have been concerned.

She didn’t know what she was missing out on.

“So am I.” She can hear the grin in his voice. “I really feel bad for you.”

“Fine, I won’t tell you what I’m thinking,” Clarke says, but she’s smiling too. “You can just wonder.”

“Yeah, that sounds great.” But he sobers. “So Raven’s a great bender. That’s good, right? You want to learn from the best.”

“It’s amazing,” she says. “She’s the best earthbender I’ve ever seen.”

“You aren’t seriously jealous, are you? You’re the _Avatar_. You’re the most special of all the benders.”

“No, I’m not jealous. I’m just–” She sighs, twists around so she can snuggle in against his chest, closing her eyes. “I think I’m going to be a better Avatar, training under her. I think I’ll do more good now than I would have if I hadn’t frozen myself. And–I’m going to be happier. And that’s really hard to think about and not feel awful.”

“You would have done good no matter what,” he tells her. “You’re the Avatar.”

“Not every Avatar has done good.”

“No.” He tugs her closer. “They probably would have killed you,” he says, soft. “They would have tried. And they would have tried to raise the new Avatar to work for them. It–I don’t know if it would have been better, if you hadn’t frozen yourself. And, seriously,” he adds. “I’m so fucking glad you’re here.”

“Me too,” she says. “That’s the problem.”

He kisses her hair. “Unless you have some Avatar powers that let you travel back in time, that’s not a problem. It’s not going to do anyone any good if you spend the rest of your life feeling shitty for losing all that time. If you can be happy, you should be happy.”

“I am happy,” she says. “Trust me, it’s not hard. That’s why I feel so bad.”

“Yeah, you’re a monster.” He tilts her chin up to kiss her. “Don’t,” he adds, serious. “You’re here, and you get to do good and see all sorts of cool stuff. Learn from great bending masters. That’s all stuff to be happy about.”

She has to grin. “Seriously, _metalbending_. This is so great. I probably can’t learn it, but–I get to learn from her. I get to see what else she’s going to come up with. I can’t wait.”

“Neither can I,” he says. “But seriously, go to sleep, Avatar. You can learn in the morning.”

She closes her eyes, listens to the steady beat of his heart under her ear. He’s still her favorite thing she gets to witness. Just him being alive. “Yeah,” she says. “I’m not going anywhere.”


	61. Canon AU - Who Said Life Was Easy and Who Said a Man Was Fair?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [crowsfan](http://crowsfan.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: Genderbent Bellamy and Clarke AU set in a canon universe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post S3.

“Don’t tell Clarke,” is her first request, vague and a little disoriented, when she comes to. Miller’s carrying her on his back, and she can feel the bandage he slapped on the jagged cut already falling off. Miller sucks at bandages.

“Oh, no way,” says Miller. “I’m not telling Clarke.” She lets out a sigh of relief, but then he adds, “This is your fault. I’m taking you to Clarke and getting the fuck out before he sees you. I don’t want to hear a lecture if I don’t have to.”

“I hate you,” says Bellamy.

“Sorry I don’t want you to bleed to death.”

“That might be an improvement.” She huffs. “You know Clarke’s been in a shitty mood lately.”

She’s been trying not to think too much about what might have caused Clarke’s shitty mood. Not that it’s uncommon for him to be pissed off; sometimes, Bellamy feels like they’ve both been pissed off non-stop since they landed. But he’s usually not pissed off with _her_ , and–okay, he isn’t exactly right now.

If she’s honest, Bellamy is pretty sure he’s _worried_ , since Octavia took off, and he doesn’t want to just talk to Bellamy about it, but he also can’t _help_ , so he’s just snapping at everyone.

It would be kind of endearing, if it wasn’t so annoying.

“Yeah, and if I let you bleed out because you two are avoiding each other, that’s not going to help.”

“We’re not avoiding each other,” she says, automatic. It’s true, in the literal sense. They have breakfast and dinner together every day, and lunch when they’re on the same schedule. He’s still her best friend.

But there are a lot of things they haven’t been talking about.

She drifts in and out as Miller hauls her back, less from blood loss and more from boredom, she’s pretty sure. Miller periodically asks her questions to make sure she’s awake, but it’s not like her head got hurt, so she’s not worried about concussion.

If she dies, she’s going to bleed out. Her brain’s not an issue.

“Nate, what are you–” she hears Monty say, and then, “Shit, is that–”

“You want to get Clarke,” says Miller, shifting her off his back and onto one of the cots in the hospital. “And then probably leave. That’s what I’m doing.”

“Thanks, asshole,” she mutters, wincing and trying not to. Fuck, it _hurts_. Maybe Clarke will knock her out for the stitches. That would be something. “What if he needs another pair of hands? You’re going to let me bleed to death to avoid an awkward situation?”

“You told me not to tell Clarke, so you were going to bleed to death to avoid an awkward situation,” Miller retorts, not unreasonably. “Don’t die on me, Bellamy.”

“You wish,” she shoots back, and closes her eyes to wait for Clarke.

She feels his hands first, strong and firm, almost as familiar as her own. Bellamy’s hands are one huge callus, from a lifetime of sewing and working, but Clarke’s are different, mostly soft, with tough patches where he holds pencils or needles. Familiar hands. Bellamy would recognize them in the dark. She’d recognize them anywhere.

“If you just let me die, you don’t have to threaten to kill me,” she points out.

She hears Clarke’s sigh. “What happened?”

“Panther. Miller killed it.”

“Great. Does that mean we have to eat panther meat again?”

“Sorry, is panther meat not good enough for you, your highness?”

“Panther meat is disgusting, Bellamy,” he says, all patience, but there’s a waver in his voice. “I’m cutting your shirt off.”

“Buy a girl a drink first.”

“I’m going to sew your mouth shut too.”

“That’s why I get the drink first.”

She shivers a little as the cool air hits her bare skin, and then again as Clarke’s fingers trace the jagged edges of the wound. It’s a bad one, but it shouldn’t be fatal. “Fuck, Bellamy,” he says. “You can’t do shit like this.”

“Shit like what? Get food?”

“Panthers aren’t even good food,” he grumbles. “This is going to sting.”

“I know,” she says, but she still hisses. She _always_ hisses. It’s tradition. “You don’t have to eat the panther,” she adds, magnanimous, when she’s recovered.

“Please tell me you weren’t actually hunting it.”

“I wasn’t actually hunting it. We were hunting the same deer it was and it decided to take a swipe at me.”

“Good.” There’s a pause, and then he says, “You’re just being dramatic, right? You don’t actually want me to let you bleed out.”

“Depends on how pissed you are.”

He sighs. “I don’t actually mind if you’re not being needlessly reckless.”

 _Garden-variety heroics_ , she thinks, and winces.

“Don’t do that,” he snaps. “I’m about to do stitches.”

“You’re not even going to knock me out?”

“We’ve survived worse,” says Clarke, and it’s not like she can argue with that.

He gives her something to bite down on, and she still passes out halfway through.

One of her better visits to medical, honestly.

*

Clarke’s still by her side when she wakes up, but he’s asleep now, head slumped onto his chest, shaggy hair tumbling into his eyes. It’s getting a little long, and Bellamy wonders if he’d let her cut it. His hair looks so silly when it gets to be this length; no one would ever take him seriously.

Her fingers still itch to weave into it.

Being in love with Clarke isn’t hard. She remembers him on the Ark, for all he’s younger than she is, him and Wells, princes of Alpha Station, making all the girls melt with their smiles. Bellamy’s never been like that, less because she’s immune to a handsome boy or pretty girl with a nice smile and more because she was always too busy with her sister to deal with that.

Besides, she knows implants can fail all too well. She couldn’t think of anything more terrifying than pregnancy.

Clarke’s left hand is laced into her right one, so she squeezes until he stirs up, enjoys the second of confusion, followed by realization and panic as he remembers what happened.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like a panther ripped my side open.”

He rolls his eyes. “A panther did rip your side open.”

He’s just wearing a thin white t-shirt, she realizes suddenly, and isn’t surprised when she looks down to see he’s draped his jacket over her.

“That explains it,” she says. “Can I go?”

“Can you stand?”

“Good question.”

Between the two of them, they get her vertical, but she’s leaning on him pretty hard. She’s pretty sure she lost a decent amount of blood on the way back.

“So, sleepover,” Clarke says, too casual. It’s nothing they haven’t done before–they both have nightmares–but every time she feels like she’s getting away with something, taking advantage somehow.

“Your hair’s almost long enough to braid,” she says.

“Seriously, I’m taking you back to the cabin and picking you up some food. You lost a lot of blood.”

“I noticed.”

She doesn’t protest further, though, leans on Clarke all the way back to their shared cabin. They have two separate rooms in there, but Clarke takes her directly into his, helps her get herself propped up on some pillows with a book.

“I could get used to this,” she teases, and Clarke rolls his eyes.

“You don’t have to get gutted for me to be nice to you,” he says. “I’d do it more if I thought you’d let me.”

She doesn’t have a good answer to that, so it’s just as well Clarke leaves without waiting for one. Bellamy doesn’t bother opening the book, just leans back, closes her eyes. They’ve had a rough first year down here, lost a lot of people. She doesn’t regret striking off on their own after they dealt with the nuclear fallout, but it made things harder again.

This is their own place, though. This is a home. And it doesn’t have everyone she loves, but–it has enough.

“I brought moonshine too,” Clarke says. He has two plates and a bottle, and he settles in next to her, close and warm all up her side. “In case you need to drink the pain away.”

“That’s you,” she says. “I was just going to ignore it and hope it went away.”

“Seriously, how are you feeling?”

“I’m going to survive.”

“Good.” They eat in silent for a few minutes, but apparently he can’t keep quiet. “You scared the shit out of me. When Monty said you were hurt–fuck, Bellamy.”

“It’s not like it’s the first time.”

He snorts. “You always know just what to say.”

“I wasn’t doing it on purpose.”

“I know.” He lets out a breath, leans his head on hers. “Every time you come back half dead, I hope it’s going to be the last time.”

“I could say the same thing about you.”

“I don’t go out hunting as much anymore. And I’m the doctor. It’s not your job to keep me alive.”

It’s one of the stupidest things he’s ever said in her memory. “Of course it is.”

“Yeah. But–” He sighs again. “Seriously. I just want us to be done with–”

“Every day being a fight?”

His pause is deliberate, but finally he says, “I want to stop worrying I’m going to lose you when I’ve never even had you.”

It doesn’t have to mean what she wants it to mean, but she’s honestly not sure what else he might be going for. Clarke Griffin is confessing his love, and all she had to do was get torn open by a panther.

“You have me, Clarke,” she says. “You’ve always had me.”

“Yeah?” he asks. “Then this is really stupid.”

He leans in and Bellamy scrambles to get the plates out of the way so they won’t spill the remains of dinner on themselves. Clarke doesn’t remember stuff like this; he’s big-picture. Bellamy’s better with the details.

Clarke’s smiling when the kiss lands, and Bellamy tugs him in, threading her fingers in his slightly shaggy hair, opening her mouth at the first hint of tongue, so Clarke won’t think shes not willing and eager. It’s hot and wet and perfect, everything she’s been wanting for months, everything she wasn’t sure she’d get either.

Then his hand slides up her slide, under his jacket, and she realizes a second before he hits her stitches what’s going to happen.

“Shit,” he mutters. “You’re hurt.”

“I bet we could be really careful,” she says, and Clarke’s smile is warm.

“I bet we could wait another day.”

“You were the one who said you were worried I’d die before we had sex.”

“That’s not what I was worried about.” He kisses her again. “I’m not clearing you to go back out for a couple of days, but if you don’t try to climb on top of my dick tonight, I’ll think about clearing you for sex tomorrow.”

“You’re the one who kissed me, you know,” she grumbles. “I’m getting some mixed signals, your highness.”

“I love you,” he says. “Don’t open up your stitches.”

*

She makes it to the mess hall for dinner the next day, feeling surprisingly warm and fuzzy and happy for someone who got attacked by a wild cat the previous day. Orgasms really do do wonders for morale.

Miller looks her up and down and snorts. “So, Clarke didn’t kill you for nearly dying on him?”

“Not yet,” she says, and steals a piece of–non-panther–meat off his plate. “I’ll keep you posted.”

Clarke joins them a minute later with his own tray, sitting even closer to Bellamy than he usually does and looking thoroughly pleased with himself. Bellamy’s hoping her own expression isn’t that goofy, but she’s not very optimistic.

Miller rolls his eyes. “I think you’re safe, Blake.”

Bellamy smiles. “Yeah. I think so too.”


	62. Me Myself I Got Nothing to Prove

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [slantedsunlight](http://slantedsunlight.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: The 100 "The Fast and the Furious" AU with Linctavia focus. Lincoln as Dom and O as Letty, possibly Clarke as Brian?

Since she was sixteen, Octavia Blake has wanted two things: to be a part of Lincoln’s crew, and to be Lincoln’s girlfriend. The first, as it turned out, was easier than the second; Lincoln was willing to consider anyone who could race and service a car for his crew, and Octavia excelled at both. She was working for him as a mechanic by nineteen and on the racing circuit by twenty-one. But he was–and is–a good few years older than she is, and convincing her she was old enough and mature enough to date was harder than convincing him she could work for him.

“You know this doesn’t even make sense, right?” she demands.

“What doesn’t?” he asks, mild.

Octavia’s lying on the hood of a car in a sports bra and tiny skirt, ostensibly because it’s hot out, but mostly because she looks really good in the ensemble. “My brother would way rather I dated you than raced for you.”

He lets out a small laugh. “Ah, yes. The number one factor in all of my decisions: your brother’s approval. His first choice would be that you didn’t race for me or date me, so I don’t know why you’re using him in your defense.”

“Because he recognizes that racing is clearly a bigger issue.”

There’s a pause, and then Lincoln asks, “So you’re telling me you want to date me instead of race?”

“No!” she says, way too quickly, making him smile. “No, no way. I just think it’s silly to say I can race, but I’m not ready to date you yet. Like dating’s a bigger deal.”

“It is to me,” Lincoln says, decisive. But his smile softens, turning her insides into a warm, golden mush. “I’m not saying you’re not ready to date me. I’m not ready to date you. So you should feel free to move on, if it’s too long of a wait for you.”

“I never said that,” she protests.

“Well then,” says Lincoln. “We should get back to work.”

“Maybe you should take this as a sign,” says Bellamy, once she’s done complaining to him, but he says it without much hope. He’s been making every argument he can against her choice of career/hobby since she started, even going so far as to basically give up on cars himself entirely, like he thought that setting a good example would cure her of her own need for speed. It’s probably a broadly better tactic than his attempted proclamations when she was in high school that no sister of his was going to throw her life away racing cars, but it’s not like those worked any better than living a moral and upstanding life does.

Racing is in her blood, and she’s pretty sure it’s in Bell’s too. He’s just in denial.

“A sign of what? You think I should start dating?”

He rolls his eyes. “I think you should consider a change in career.”

“Being a mechanic is a great living,” she says, straight-faced. “I do really well.”

“Of course you do.” He huffs and crosses his arms over his chest. “Look, you know I didn’t like it when it was just racing. But you guys fucking _meet here_ –”

“Because you told us we could!” she protests. They meet at the bar because Bell owns it, and he told them they could. And she does feel a little bad about it, because Murphy’s been making noise about them getting into illegal shit, and she knows Bell would never report them, but she also knows it’s–unfair. To put him in that position.

And she’d say they could meet somewhere else, but then he’d just worry about what they were doing without his knowing it. And maybe he’d deserve to worry about that, but Octavia has trouble really feeling that. It’s not like _she_ really wants to start jacking cars either. They do a lot of questionably legal stuff, but heists that big are just stupid. Octavia races because she likes to go fast, not because she wants to get rich.

“Don’t start getting into carjacking,” he says, which she has to admit is pretty fair, as requests go. She has the same one, honestly. Their current level of quasi-legality is good with her, and she doesn’t need to push it any further.

So, in that sense, she should be thrilled when Clarke Griffin shows up, both because Clarke is an outsider, which means Murphy shuts up about how they should start stealing luxury sports cars until he decides if he can trust her, and because she’s pretty cool, and Octavia’s always theoretically in favor of having more girls in the squad. Raven is a recurring guest-star at best, and she, Monty, and Miller are _definitely_ involved in all kinds of illegal shit. Which doesn’t make Octavia dislike her so much as it just means she’s busy a lot of the time. And she can’t race anymore, after what happened to her leg, which sucks.

The point is, Clarke should be good news, except for three other things: one, she thinks Lincoln might have a thing for her, two, Bell _totally_ has a thing for her, and, three, Octavia is pretty sure she’s a cop.

Which would another reason to be grateful she showed up, since maybe Murphy will just get his own dumb ass arrested instead of the rest of them, but no one else seems to have noticed she’s a cop, so they’re all probably going to get their dumb asses arrested, and they’ll deserve it.

But it’s not like she _wants_ that to happen.

She starts with Bellamy.

“You know your girlfriend’s a cop, right?”

He doesn’t look up from stocking the bar. “I don’t have a girlfriend. And I know you’re just hoping I do because you think Lincoln is into her. Which he’s not, so you don’t have to be jealous.” He pauses. “Much as I hate to admit it, Lincoln’s into you. He’s just not used to you being of legal drinking age yet.”

“Like you can talk,” she shoots back. “Seriously, you don’t care?”

“Care about what? You dating Lincoln? Honestly, that’s one of the least objectionable parts of your life. I’d rather you dated Lincoln than raced with him.”

“I know. I used that as an argument why he should date me.”

He snorts. “How’d that work?”

“We’re still not dating. And you’re changing the subject! Clarke’s absolutely, one-hundred-percent a cop. And you don’t care.”

He shrugs. “Why would I care? I’m not doing illegal shit. I’m a bartender. If I want to date a cop, that’s my business. I’ve got nothing to hide from a cop. If I were dating her,” he adds. “Which I’m not.”

She scowls. “You’re useless.”

“Yeah,” he says, unrepentant. “That’s what I go for.”

Lincoln’s no more help.

“Clarke’s a cop,” she tells him.

“If you’re trying to stop your brother dating her, I think you need a different tactic,” says Lincoln, without missing a beat. “I don’t think he cares that she’s a cop.”

That gives her pause. “You aren’t pissed about that?”

“About what? You haven’t given me a compelling argument that she is a cop, so I don’t see why I’d be upset about it.”

“Not that. About Bell liking her.”

“Why would I be upset about that?”

He sounds genuinely confused, which just makes it worse. That means Octavia has to spell it out. “Because she’s cute. And age-appropriate.”

“Oh,” he says. “I suppose she is, yes. I hadn’t been thinking about that.”

“I think about it,” she admits, soft.

There’s a pause, and then he says, “I’m hoping, at some point, that I can talk myself into feeling–” He lets out a frustrated noise. “It’s not a matter of not wanting you, Octavia. It’s a matter of still remembering you at fourteen years old.”

“That was eight years ago,” she says, but it doesn’t come out hard or petulant. Lincoln knows how old she is, and this is the most he’s ever said about it. “I didn’t even like you when I was fourteen.”

He laughs, surprised. “You didn’t?”

“Not until I was sixteen.”

“Oh, well, that makes it okay.” But he’s still smiling. “You were Bellamy’s little sister. Sometimes I look at you and I can’t stop thinking about that. And sometimes I look at you and–”

His eyes sweep over her like they never have before, hot and dark, an appreciation she didn’t know he had for her all over his features.

“Oh,” she breathes.

“You don’t have to worry about Clarke. And she clearly prefers your brother anyway.” He pauses. “And she might be a cop.”

To her surprise, laughter bubbles out of her. Lincoln thinks she’s right about Clarke _and_ he’s not into her. Once he gets over thinking she’s a pimply teenager, he’s going to date her.

“Right?”

“She’s not good at pretending to be on the wrong side of the law.”

It’s undeniably true, so it’s no surprise when Clarke does reveal that she’s a fed–which is, admittedly, not _exactly_ the same as a cop–tasked with looking into a bunch of shady shit, some of which Lincoln’s crew knows about (mainly what Raven’s crew did) and some of it they wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole (everything related to the Wallace family). It’s more of a surprise to find that she really does trust them, and wants their help taking the Wallaces down. It’s the kind of thing that Octavia is against in theory, because fuck the police, but for in practice, because not only does she like Clarke and hate the Wallaces, but Bell is totally crazy about her, so they should try to be on good terms.

The decision to assist her is unanimous, and Bell and Lincoln just tell her to be careful. Which she _is_ , but anyone can get in a bad crash in a race. Especially when the other side is cheating assholes.

Clarke’s the only one awake when she comes to in the hospital bed. Bell is slumped onto her, his hand clasped tightly in hers even in sleep, and Octavia blinks, because if her brother is holding Clarke’s hand, that means–

Lincoln is holding hers, and he’s asleep too.

“Neither of them has left since you got here,” says Clarke, soft, her mouth curving in a smile. “I had some arrests to make.”

“Did I at least get credit for winning the race?”

Clarke rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “No wonder your brother says your priorities are out of order. Yes, you won the race. And you get the money.” She nudges Bell with her shoulder, gentle. “Hey, wake up. Your sister’s alive.”

He’s surprisingly cool about it too, agreeing that she followed the plan and didn’t do anything too reckless. He tells her he loves her and he’s proud of her, places a kiss on her forehead, and then _leaves_ , which is a minor miracle all by itself. Her brother, not telling her to quit her day job, even though she got hurt.

Maybe dating a cop is good for him.

She squeezes Lincoln’s fingers. “Hey, wake up.”

He blinks up slowly and then lurches forward, relief written all over his face. “You’re all right.”

“Just tired and sore. Nothing a few days’ rest won’t cure.”

“Good.” He leans down to rest his forehead against hers. “I was so terrified, when I saw what Cage Wallace had–” He smiles. “It’s a good thing an officer of the law was there, or I might have done something stupid.”

“Yeah? How stupid?”

“I love you,” he says, and it’s not exactly a surprise, but it’s a huge relief. “I would have done all the stupidest things.”

“And then you’d be in jail, and we couldn’t make out. I think we should stick to just doing the regular stupid things.”

“Just regular stupid,” he says. “Car races with the usual level of danger. Slightly sketchy deals. Helping break down stolen merchandise.” He pauses, deliberate. “Dating.”

“Dating is new,” she says. “And not stupid. But we should definitely do it. And maybe be careful about the sketchy stuff. I’m pretty sure my brother’s going to marry a cop.”

He laughs. “Deal,” he says, and kisses her, soft and careful. She’d object, but they are in a hospital. They can do it better later. “As long as we can still date.”

“You’re acting like _I’m_ the one who didn’t want to,” she grumbles, and squeezes his fingers again. “Yeah. Deal.”


	63. when the moon explodes or floats away timestamp: christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [beerandcheese-princess](http://beerandcheese-princess.tumblr.com/)! Original fic [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6671533).

_One_.

Fifth year, Clarke invites everyone over for Christmas.

“Nate is already coming,” she says. “The two of you might as well come too.”

“Yeah, no,” says Bellamy. “That’s a fucking terrible idea.”

“I can come,” Raven says. “We live in the same town anyway, I can stop by and hang out.”

“There’s a full moon,” Bellamy says, when Clarke looks at him hopefully. “I have stuff to deal with it at home. I don’t have stuff to deal with it at your place. And your mother considers me a subhuman,” he adds, for good measure.

He feels a little bad when her smile dims; she was excited, and it’s not her fault he’s a werewolf. It’s not even her fault her mother is a bigoted asshole. She can’t help her family.

“You guys can call me,” he says. “Raven has a phone.”

But Clarke doesn’t let it go. Instead, she retreats, regroups, and comes back with a strengthened argument.

He doesn’t know how he ever wasn’t friends with her, honestly.

“Okay, so the full moon is on the 18th,” she says. “It’s not like it’s _on_ Christmas.”

“Thanks for clearing that up.”

“I’m just saying,” she says. “You don’t have to stay the whole time. But you could stop by for a few days. Is your house on the floo network?”

“No. And I have my sister.”

She worries her lip, and then nods. “Okay, I get it. I just–I don’t want you to think we don’t want you, okay? We can come visit you. There’s no way we’re going to go without seeing you for the whole break.”

“Gonna miss me that much?” he teases, mostly because he doesn’t want her to know about the lump in his throat, the way emotion practically chokes him. She hasn’t been his friend for that long. She was his _enemy_ before. In the last few months, she’s found out his secret and it hasn’t made any difference. He’s found out Raven and Miller knew too, and it hasn’t made any difference with them either.

He doesn’t know what to say about that, so he’s going to stick to pretending he doesn’t have feelings. It’s a lot easier.

“Raven’s going to bring video games,” she shoots back. “Those are more fun with more people.”

“I’ll come when I can,” he says, and does. He stops by every few days, and they play video games and trash talk, and he gets to practice flying and use his magic, which he usually can’t on breaks.

He spends Christmas Day with his family, but he goes to Clarke’s the day after to do gifts with his friends.

She gives him a bone and a bag of dog treats, and he flips her off, like it’s not hilarious.

“I got you this too,” she says, and hands him another gift, a book called _Sub and Superhuman: A History of Magical Sentients in Britain_ , and he tries not to get emotional. _Again_. “In case the treats don’t taste good. It’s not like I could try them.”

“Of course you could. They’re not poisonous.” His fingers trace the letters on the book cover. “Did you read this?”

“Yeah. It’s really fascinating.”

He gives her a real smile. “This is awesome, Clarke. Thanks.”

“Merry Christmas,” she says.

“Yeah. Merry Christmas to you too.”

  


_Two_.

Clarke’s never spent Christmas at Hogwarts before, but Bellamy is staying, and Clarke doesn’t like the idea of him being here alone. Not that he’ll be _alone_ –part of why he’s staying is that his sister wanted to–but most of the Slytherins will be gone.

“You’ll be back for the full moon anyway,” he points out. “Even if you weren’t, I could handle one alone. I’ve handled a lot of those alone.”

“You know when you say that it doesn’t make me feel better, right?” Clarke asks.

“It’s almost like my life doesn’t exist to make you feel better,” he teases.

“I’m not staying because of the full moon,” she says. “I’ve never been at Hogwarts for Christmas before. I’m excited to see what it’s like.”

“I haven’t either,” he points out. “So if it sucks, you’re going to blame me.”

“That does sound like me.” She nudges her shoulder against his. “You really think I want to go home and hang out with my mom?”

Apparently that’s all she needs to say. “Oh, fuck, yeah.” Then he frowns. “Wait, what are you going to tell her? She’s not just going to let you hang out at school, is she?”

“I’ll tell her I’m working on a project. We can say Nate is too,” she realizes, brightening at the prospect. “And I bet Raven would stay too. It’s not like she likes being home.”

“So you’re just going to keep everyone from having a nice Christmas with their families for me?” he teases.

“Yeah, so don’t expect me to get you anything else.”

Hogwarts is different, over Christmas. There are never a ton of students, but they’re the only four Slytherins who haven’t gone home, and aside from them it’s just a handful of kids from other houses. Clarke’s never really bonded with anyone outside of Slytherin, although she’s not particularly unpopular. She’s just the kind of person who has a few close friends and then a lot of acquaintances, and all her close friends are right here.

They spend most of their time in the common room or the room of requirement, playing video games or reading. Ever since they became animagi, personal space basically stopped existing, so she gets to curl into Bellamy’s side whenever she wants to, and no one even makes fun of her that much. It’s just part of who they are, the four of them. They cuddle now. They’re cuddlers.

On Christmas Eve, Nate and Raven go to bed before her and Bellamy, and she can’t decide if giving they’re giving her and Bellamy privacy as some weird Christmas present, or genuinely tired, or hoping she’ll finally lose it and jump him so Raven stops having to deal with her sexual frustration.

Whatever the reason, it’s nice.

“This is probably my best Christmas ever,” Bellamy admits, soft.

“It’s only been Christmas for twenty minutes.”

“Which tells you just how sad my previous Christmases have been.”

“They have not,” she says.

He leans his head against hers. “No, they haven’t. But they were always more stressful than relaxing. Like–it’s hard being around my mom, and my sister is just more and more of a handful. This feels like how it’s supposed to be, I guess. Friends and a fireplace and way too much food.”

“That is how it’s supposed to be.” She thinks it over. “It might be my best Christmas too. But I bet we can do better.”

“You think?”

“Well, the present I got you wasn’t very good.”

She feels the press of his lips in her hair. “Yeah, last year you got me dog treats. My expectations are low.” He pauses. “But I bet I’ll love it.”

She’s going to tell him how she feels soon. Really, she is. But this is so nice, just this. “I’m going to hold you to that,” she says, and they fall asleep in front of the fire together.

  


_Three_.

Their last year at Hogwarts, everyone decides to spend Christmas with their significant others. Raven follows Roan back to wherever Roan comes from–Bellamy honestly has no clue–and Miller goes to meet Monty’s family, leaving him and Clarke to celebrate at Hogwarts alone.

Or, well, mostly alone.

“Maybe we should have put up a sign,” he says. “ _Warning: Bellamy and Clarke are staying_.”

“We signed up before he did,” she retorts. “He knew.”

“You think we’re not scary enough? I could tell him I’m a werewolf.”

It’s been more than two years, but he still can’t quite believe it’s something he jokes about. With his _girlfriend_. He doesn’t actually want to spread it around, but it doesn’t feel like this unthinkable thing, not like it used to. If everyone found out, the worst thing he’d be worried about would be someone realizing that his friends had become animagi, but that’s a new fear, less sharp. He thinks that would turn out all right for them, and he knows he wouldn’t lose them.

“Too late,” Clarke says, with a sigh. “I think we’re stuck.”

Myles Crenwick is a second year who has, from what Bellamy can tell, no reason to be in Slytherin except that he thinks Slytherins are cool. Which probably works pretty well if you’re a Gryffindor, but for Slytherins, it’s really not a selling point. Nothing turns off a Slytherin like an obvious desperation to be one of the cool kids.

And as the official–well, Bellamy has trouble considering the four of them the _least_ dickish Slytherins, but they’re the ones most inclined to be polite to people they don’t know, so Myles seems to believe they sort of like him.

Which Bellamy kind of does, in the way you like a puppy who keeps running into walls and peeing on everything. It’s kind of cute, and you’ll be sad when its stupidity gets it seriously injured.

None of which means Bellamy is looking forward to spending Christmas with him, but it’s still probably an improvement on going to either his place or Clarke’s place. And the risk of anything bad happening is low. The full moon comes a few weeks before the holiday, so they can follow their normal routine, and then it’s two weeks of stress-free relaxation with his girlfriend.

And Myles.

Bellamy’s not sure he’s ever met anyone as bad at reading the mood as Myles Crenshaw. He and Clarke will be sitting in the common room in silence, reading or sketching or playing exploding snap, and Myles will come in and start chattering. He’s very friendly and enthusiastic and cheerful, and within forty-eight hours, Bellamy wants to strangle him.

“I really wasn’t planning to spend the whole break in here,” he says, flopping face-down onto the couch in the room of requirement. He _likes_ the common room when it’s empty. If nothing else, it’s way less trouble to get to.

Clarke sits down next to him and scratches his head. “We won’t spend the whole time here. Just half. I’d feel bad totally abandoning Myles.”

“Don’t say that, they’re going to resort you into Hufflepuff.”

“And then you’d dump me,” she teases.

“Yeah, I’m only dating you because you’re a Slytherin, definitely. I have very high standards.”

“Very high.”

He sighs, shifts so his head is in her lap. “Is it sad if I was looking forward to having Christmas with you? Just you.”

“Not sad, but–maybe a little silly. Not that you want it,” she adds quickly. “Just–we’re going to get plenty of Christmases together, Bellamy. This isn’t your last chance.”

“No?”

She leans down for a kiss. “We’re going to be dealing with awkward holidays with people we don’t want to talk to for years to come. I promise.”

“You make it sound so good,” he says, and makes it sound like a joke. But–she does. The two of them together, for years to come. “Does that mean you want to go make sure Myles isn’t going to get killed for trying to bond with the Bloody Baron?”

“Five more minutes,” she says. “Then we can go.”

He smiles. “Take your time.”

  


_Four_.

“You think Hogwarts rents rooms for the holidays?” Bellamy asks, frowning at the mirror as he tries to get his hair in some sort of order without magical assistance. “That sounds great.”

“You want to go back to school for Christmas?” she teases. “Stop fidgeting, you look great.”

“You always think I look great. Your mother always thinks I look like the asshole werewolf who isn’t good enough to breathe the same air she does.”

“She doesn’t know you’re a werewolf.”

“No other objections, though.”

“Yeah, the rest is accurate,” she agrees, and leans up for a kiss. “It’ll be two hours of our lives, and then we don’t have to see my mom again until New Year’s. We still get Christmas Eve just for us.”

That makes him smile, and the sight of it warms her down to her toes. It still feels new and a little bit scary, living with him. They have their own place and their own jobs and her mother has been asking when they’re going to get _married_. Which is one of those questions that doesn’t have a good answer. She assumes she’ll marry Bellamy because she loves him, and marriage is the next logical step for them. But there isn’t any rush, as far as she’s concerned. They don’t want kids yet, and they’re already living together. She’s getting everything she wants out of this relationship.

“But then we have to host people on Christmas,” he points out.

“Not _people_. Friends. It’s going to be nice.”

“It is,” he grants. “I miss Raven.”

She and Roan are both teaching at Hogwarts now, which means she’s busy and stays on school grounds, most of the time. They write often and play video games long-distance, but it’s not the same.

“See? It’s going to be fun.”

“Yeah, but if we rented room at Hogwarts, we could still see Raven. And avoid your family. And my family. Basically everyone we’re related to except Octavia.”

“Or we could just go somewhere next year. Somewhere warm. A real holiday. I bet Raven and Nate would be into that.” She brushes his hair out of his eyes with a smile. It’s never going to stay put, but she wouldn’t want it too. “But let’s get through this year before we start worrying about next year.”

“I knew you weren’t looking forward to this party,” he says, triumphant.

“No,” she says. “Of course I’m not. But it could be worse.”

“It could be the full moon.”

“If you turned into a wolf during my mother’s holiday party, we’d never get invited back,” she observes. “So if you ever get really tired of them, that’s an option.”

“ _Merry Christmas, Mom, I’m dating a werewolf_ ,” he says, and she laughs.

“If I’m ever out of gift ideas.” She pauses, worrying her lip. “We honestly don’t have to go. I can pretend I caught something at work.”

“No, it’s fine, I’ll survive,” he says, with an over-dramatic sigh. “But you better make it up to me next year.”

She smiles. “I think I can do that.”

“Yeah, I’m not worried.” He offers his arm, and she takes it, leaning her head on his shoulder, just for a second. “I know you’re good for it.”


	64. That Doesn't Mean We're In Love - Bellamy POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [bethanyactually](https://bethanyactually.tumblr.com/)! Original fic [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7236523).

“So,” says Miller, not unreasonably, “you’re going to have to explain this one to me. Because you wanted to fuck off to the woods instead of being happy you’re marrying the girl you’re in love with, and that’s a lot even for you.”

Bellamy rubs his face, feeling the scratch of stubble against his palm. In a way, he knows Miller is _right_. He’s getting married to a woman he wants to marry, which is something he’d never even considered as a possibility in his entire life. Until he got Octavia caught, he assumed he wouldn’t be able to marry because of her, and after she was found, he assumed the same thing, just for different reasons. And then, on Earth, the idea of surviving long enough to marry was laughable. Maybe he would have thought of it with Gina, if he’d really been able to think that far in the future, back then.

Clarke was a different thing. He’d never thought about marriage less because he thought he didn’t want it and more because it felt redundant and unnecessary. If he has his way, he’s never losing Clarke again, but it’s not up to him. If she stays, he doesn’t need to be married to her, and if she doesn’t, it doesn’t matter.

So there’s no good reason it bothers him, that she doesn’t care about marrying him either. He didn’t actually think she wanted to. He wasn’t expecting it. And that made it somehow worse. The marriage is logical, reasonable, and completely justified. If she’d said she had to marry a grounder, he would have told her she could marry him instead. He’s totally in support of this idea on paper.

“It’s nothing,” he tells Miller.

“We fucked off to the woods.”

“Yeah, but you like the woods.”

“Clarke thought we were doing it because I was so heartbroken. Which, don’t get me wrong, breaking up sucks, but this wasn’t my idea.”

He leans back on his sleeping pack, closing his eyes. “Yeah, I appreciate it,” he says. “But you don’t have to make me talk about my feelings. I know you hate this. We can just lie here in silence and–”

“Nope,” Miller says. “I want the gossip. Seriously, you’re marrying Clarke. This is supposed to be you, finally getting what you want. So explain this to me.”

“Look, I don’t care if I never marry Clarke,” he says. Miller snorts, but it’s true, so he doesn’t bother arguing. “But if I’m going to, I want it to be a big deal. I don’t want to get married for a ceremony and then once the grounders are gone, we never mention it again.”

“And that’s what’s happening?”

“Yeah. She said we needed to get married, and we do. And you’ve seen her since we got–” He trips over the word; it’s not like they’re _engaged_. “Ever since I agreed to it, she’s been in a shitty mood. She’s pissed we have to do this. And I don’t blame her,” he adds. “It’s a good idea and it’s worth it, but it’s fucked up.”

“She did ask you,” Miller points out, after a pause. “There’s no way she was going to marry anyone else. You gotta know that.”

“The grounders assumed we were already married,” he shoots back. “They picked me out for her. Them and Jasper.” He lets out an exhalation of breath, and admits, “I know I’m being an asshole.”

“Just an idiot,” Miller counters, easy. “I don’t know what she said to you, but trust me–Clarke Griffin really wants to marry you.”

“All signs to the contrary,” he says.

“Just the ones you’re looking at.”

“She’s expecting everyone she talks to to talk her out of it. She’s just waiting for someone to tell us it’s a bad idea. But she knows it’s not, because she’d have to marry someone else.” He sighs. “I know that too,” he adds. “I just–fuck, I couldn’t be there planning a fucking _grounder wedding_ for us, with her wishing the whole time she was doing it with Lexa or something. I’ll marry her, I’ll do whatever she wants, but–in a week, it’s going to be done, and I don’t want to get invested.”

“A week of guard shifts,” Miller finally says.

“What?”

“I bet you a week of your shittiest guard shifts that you’re still married to her next month. And in a better mood because you’re getting regularly laid.”

“Deal,” he says. “I’ve got some really bad shifts for you.”

“Uh huh,” says Miller. “I’m shaking.”

*

They get back late the night before the wedding, and Bellamy is exhausted, by design. All he wants to do is collapse into bed and go to sleep, instead of thinking about what’s happening tomorrow. If he’s lucky, he’ll pass out so hard they can’t wake him up and they’ll have to cancel the ceremony.

Or they’d make Clarke marry someone else, and he doesn’t want that. The only thing worse than his marrying Clarke would be someone else doing it. So he’s going to wake up in the morning, but ideally after getting some amount of actual sleep, instead of just tossing and turning and being totally unable to turn his brain off.

The goal already seems ridiculously unrealistic and only gets more so when he opens up his cabin door and sees there’s new stuff in his room and Clarke in his bed.

He did tell her she could move in. He just didn’t really expect her to call his bluff, given he wasn’t even _around_. No one would have known.

For a second, he lets himself think about escalating. He could strip off his clothes and climb into the bed with her, wrap her up and–

He ducks back out and raps on Miller’s door.

“Fuck, you aren’t done with me yet?” he grumbles, opening the door. “I’m out of helpful shit to tell you. You’re a mess.”

“Clarke’s in my bed,” he says. “Can I sleep on your floor?”

Miller just stares at him for a second, and then steps out of the way so he can come in. To Bellamy’s relief, he waits until the door is closed to say, “So, the girl you’re in love with, the one you’re marrying tomorrow, is in your bed, and you want to sleep on my floor instead of with her? I don’t even like girls and I’d rather sleep with her than on my floor.”

“Yeah, it’s that level of detachment that lets you say that,” he says.

“Guess so.” He lets it sit for a beat and then adds, “So, you want me to marry her instead?”

“No. Shut up.”

Miller throws a pillow at him. “I’m thinking two weeks’ guard shifts,” he adds. “You’re making me put up with a lot of shit right now.”

“You’re a good friend,” says Bellamy. “Just think about how much it’s going to suck tomorrow.”

“It’s going to be something. Go the fuck to sleep.”

*

The next day is about as bad as he expected it to be. He doesn’t have to see Clarke, which is sort of a blessing, but it would in all ways be a better day if she was with him instead of Jaril, who’s a perfectly nice guy, but the makeup doesn’t make his nose itch and he doesn’t seem to think all of this is just a little much like Clarke would.

“I miss them too,” Jaril says, like he’s reading Bellamy’s mind, but not very well. “But soon we’ll be joined to them forever.”

As far as Bellamy’s concerned, he’s already joined to Clarke forever, but he just nods. “Yeah. Can’t wait.”

The worst part of it is honestly that the ceremony isn’t until sunset, but he’s done getting ready before that, so he just has to hang out in the tent away from everyone and everything, because that’s traditional. It feels like tradition could, at the very least, provide him with a book to read or something.

It’s almost a relief when he finally gets to go to the wedding, just because he’s not sitting around failing to make small talk with Jaril anymore. He’s just going to be able to get it over with.

And then he sees Clarke.

It’s not as if she isn’t beautiful. Of course she is. Clarke is beautiful in that easy, effortless way that people he loves are, a way that has very little to do with what she actually looks like at any given time and everything to do with how he feels about her. It’s impossible for Clarke to not be beautiful to him; it’s an inherent part of who she is.

But this is the closest she’s come in a long time. All he can think of is that day in Polis, a contender for the worst day of his life, Clarke telling him she wasn’t coming home with him, the explosion at Mt. Weather, the sure knowledge that everything he believed was wrong, that he’d been making the worst choices he could since he got to the ground.

And then he’d just kept making them.

He can’t look at her for more than a second at a time, and it’s worse than he imagined it could be, given he didn’t want to get married in the first place. But at the same time, she’s next to him, and her hands are warm in his, and her voice doesn’t shake as she promises to love him and stay by his side for the rest of their lives.

When he leans down to kiss her, chaste and brief, there’s a second where she tries to chase his mouth, before she–

Before she doesn’t. He doesn’t know why she tried to follow or why she stopped, but it makes his heart stop, makes his breath catch, makes him think _maybe_.

And then she disappears.

“I can’t wait to get out of all my worst shifts,” he tells Miller. He skipped the food and went straight for the moonshine, and Miller rolls his eyes.

“What’s happening?” asks Monty, confused.

“Bellamy’s a dumbass.”

Monty nods. “So, nothing new.”

“Fuck you both,” he says, and makes a face as he takes a long gulp of moonshine.

He doesn’t actually want to get drunk, just make a point to Miller, so he takes the next sip slower, with a little food, and tries not to be too obviously looking for Clarke.

Tries not to think too much about it as she _doesn’t show up_. He knew she was annoyed about the marriage, but this is seriously taking it to another level.

“Oh, yeah, I think I’ve got it,” Miller says, and before Bellamy can respond, Clarke’s at his side, with her hair falling around her face in soft, perfect waves. Her face is scrubbed clean, and she’s wearing a plain gray shirt and denim trousers. She looks like herself. Like his Clarke.

“That’s where you went,” he says, eyes roving over her. She wanted to kiss him, and she left to get changed. It’s hard to not feel a little optimistic about that.

It _is_ his wedding night, in spite of everything.

She tucks her hair behind her ear, smiling a little. “Yeah, it wasn’t really my style.” She takes the moonshine from him and takes a generous gulp herself. “I think your moonshine is getting worse,” she tells Monty.

He raises his own bottle in her direction. “Yeah, but you keep drinking it. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” She turns her attention to him, and her smile is mesmerizing. She looks _happy_ , finally. “We got married.”

“We got married. You look nice,” he adds, against his better judgement.

“Fuck, I’m not drunk enough for this,” Miller mutters. Bellamy kicks his ankle, because he is, at heart, an asshole. Miller deserves to complain. Miller deserves a medal, probably.

“I’m actually going to steal him anyway. Wedding night,” she adds, like this is a big secret.

“Told you,” says Miller, and Bellamy kicks him again, primarily so that he won’t look at Clarke. But–they probably need to talk. Clarke wants to, and–he really needs to know what’s going on, because he was so sure he _knew_ , and for the first time, he’s wondering if he misread this.

Everyone else seems to think he did. He wouldn’t mind being wrong.

“We really don’t have to do this,” he reminds her. “Seriously. I don’t think the grounders care. They aren’t even paying attention to us.”

Clarke doesn’t look back; she’s heading toward his cabin with single-minded purpose. “I moved all my stuff into your place.”

“They’ll be gone in two days, so that was kind of overkill.”

She apparently doesn’t have a response to that, so she just yanks the cabin door open with way more force than necessary and shoves him inside. “What the fuck, Bellamy?” she demands.

“What?”

“Why are you being so–what’s with you?”

It’s a fucking unfair question. “What’s with me? You’re the one who’s been pissed for three straight weeks, just because I’m doing what you _want_.” He takes a breath. He really didn’t want to have _this_ argument. Not when he thought she might want to make out. “You really didn’t have to move _everything_ ,” he finally says. “This’ll be over in a few days.”

She looks genuinely surprised. “What?”

“We needed to get married. We did. I assume we’re getting–divorced. Or no one actually cares. It’s not like we have a governing body that’s giving us property rights or tax breaks or something. You don’t have to–” She’s looking more and more confused, and he has to look away. He doesn’t know how to read her expression, and he doesn’t want to get his hopes any higher. He’s still not sure enough. “I can sleep on the couch for a few days. Or at Miller’s. Wherever you–”

“You want to get divorced?” she asks, which is just unfair.

“I figured we would, yeah.”

“Bellamy.” Her voice is fond.

“What?” he snaps.

She takes a step closer. “I was really expecting you to fight me on the whole marriage thing.”

“It was the right call. I don’t usually fight you when you’re right. Unless I’m bored,” he adds, in the interest of full disclosure.

“Tell me you think we shouldn’t get married.”

“We already got married,” he reminds her. “It’s a little late for that.”

“Humor me.”

“Fuck, you’re so demanding,” he grumbles. It’s mostly a stall tactic, because he doesn’t know how to say it. He doesn’t need to marry her, but–he thinks they probably _should_. If he had his way, they would. “We shouldn’t get married for a treaty,” he finally tells her. That he’s sure was stupid. Getting married for a treaty is never going to be a good idea.

Her smile is sudden, and she actually laughs a little, surprised and delighted. “No, we shouldn’t.” She takes another step toward him. “I was going to talk you into it, Bellamy. I had all these arguments but you just said you would, and–” She shakes her head, still smiling, and he can’t quite breathe. “It’s all the same argument, okay? You’re my best friend, and I love you, and I want to be married to you. I sort of figured I’d tell you that before we got married, but then you didn’t try to fight me on it, so–”

That snaps him out of it. “You weren’t going to tell me that unless I wouldn’t marry you?” he asks.

“It was going to be romantic!” she shoots back.

“You have some fucked up ideas about romance.”

She rolls her eyes. “You gave me an ugly bear,” she says, and he has to smile. It was not his most inspired gift, but–they’re married, and she was going to romance him. If he hadn’t just told her he’d marry her.

She said she loved him.

When he cups her face, she leans up, and this time the kiss is long and deep and perfect, Clarke holding him close and responding instantly, grinning against his mouth, and apparently he really should just argue with her all the time. Going along with her questionable scheme was the wrong choice. All he had to do was say no, and she would have married him anyway.

It’s not like he really would have wanted her to make it easy for him, even if the last couple weeks were needlessly stressful. He gets this; it was worth it.

He nudges his nose against hers. “Hey. I think we should get married.”

She laughs. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. All your stuff is already here. It just makes sense.”

*

He finds Miller at dinner the next day.

“So, what are your worst guard shifts?” he asks. “What am I in for?”

Miller snorts. “I fucking told you.”

“Yeah, you did. I guess I just needed to hear it from her.”

“And?”

“And I’m married,” he says. “It’s awesome. You were right, I was wrong. I’ll take as many shifts as you want.”

“Wow. Getting laid is even better for you than I thought.” He actually smiles, a real one, which is vaguely alarming. But mostly nice. “Congratulations on getting your head out of your ass. And the marriage, I guess.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah. I never thought it was gonna happen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap on these! Happy New Year, friends. If you don't see me for a while, it's because I am once again hanging out with my girlfriend.


End file.
